“…with the authority to dispose of real estate property?”
Ryan’s face drained of color. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to read the fine print.
“Where?” he asked, bending over the document in a flustered rush. “Oh, that. It’s just a standard template. A universal form. They list every possible authorization so you don’t have to redo paperwork later. What if we need to request something from the registry or get a housing extract? It’s procedural, Emily. Don’t overthink it.”
“A procedural detail?” She set the pen down with deliberate calm. “Selling my apartment counts as a procedural detail now?”
“Who said anything about selling?” His voice cracked, rising sharply. “Do you seriously not trust me? I’m your husband! I’m doing this for us! We need the tax refund—extra money wouldn’t hurt!”
From the bedroom doorway, Linda appeared. She stood there with her arms folded across her broad chest, staring at her daughter-in-law with a hard, unblinking gaze. The sweet grandmotherly expression had vanished without a trace.
“What’s with the dramatics, Emily?” she boomed. “Ryan’s been running around, collecting documents, handling everything, and you’re making a scene? Just sign it and stop fraying everyone’s nerves. My blood pressure is shooting up because of your hysterics.”
“Your blood pressure is rising, Linda?” Emily stood slowly. The fear that had gripped her earlier dissolved, replaced by something icy and razor-sharp. “Don’t worry. I can fix that.”
She crossed to the wardrobe, opened the top shelf, and pulled down a small box containing the apartment’s ownership papers.
“What are you doing?” Ryan asked, alarm creeping into his voice.
“Double-checking something,” she replied curtly. “Ryan, are you familiar with Article 159 of the Criminal Code? Fraud committed by a group of individuals acting in prior conspiracy.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Linda hissed, stepping fully into the room. “Fraud? We’re family! We only wanted what’s best!”
“For whom?” Emily spun toward them, documents clutched in her hands. “For your creditors?”
Silence filled the room—thick, suffocating, almost tangible. Linda’s face mottled with angry red patches. Ryan lowered his eyes, shrinking into himself like a reprimanded schoolboy.
“You… you were listening?” he whispered.
“I heard enough,” Emily said evenly. “I heard about the deposit. About how I ‘had nowhere to go.’ About how my apartment would conveniently cover your mother’s debts.”
“Emily, please!” Ryan rushed toward her, trying to grab her shoulders. “It’s not what you think! Mom got trapped in a bad investment—some cooperative promised huge returns and vanished with the money. Interest is piling up. Collectors are threatening her! We thought we could sell your place temporarily, close the debt, and then… later we’d take out a mortgage. Together. A big house for all of us.”
“Temporarily sell my apartment?” Emily let out a laugh, and the sound was chilling. “Listen to yourself. You were ready to make me homeless to rescue your mother from her own recklessness. Did it ever occur to you to ask me?”
“What was there to ask?” Linda suddenly exploded, losing what little restraint she had left. “You’re young—you’ll earn more! I’m an older woman; those thugs could come after me! You’re part of this family now. That means you share both the joys and the burdens! That apartment fell into your lap from your grandmother. You didn’t sweat for it! If it came free, it can be sacrificed for your relatives!”
There it was—the naked truth. Envy. Thick, bitter envy toward something that wasn’t theirs. To them, her inheritance was a windfall they were entitled to claim.
“Get out,” Emily said quietly.
“What did you say?” Linda gasped, choking on outrage.
“Get out of my home. Both of you. Now.”
“You can’t do that!” Ryan shrieked. “I live here! This is my—”
“You own nothing here,” Emily cut in coldly. “You’re not even registered at this address. You’re still officially registered at your mother’s apartment—the same one you must have already mortgaged or sold, since you suddenly needed mine. Pack your things. You have one hour. If you’re still here after that, I’m calling the police. And believe me, Ryan, I have a recording of your little kitchen conversation. I turned on the voice recorder the moment I heard the first word.”
It was a lie. She hadn’t recorded anything. But the bluff landed perfectly. Ryan turned ashen.
“You recorded Mom?” he whispered in horror. “You’re… you’re heartless.”
“Start packing, you idiot!” Linda barked at him.