“Because it is!”
Iris slid a folder toward me. I didn’t need to read it.
I said, “Not really. Not when the down payment came from my funds.”
Damon stuttered. “You… transferred money once. That was your savings.”
“That wasn’t savings,” I said. “It was compensation.”
He scoffed. “From what? You’re a consultant.”
I exhaled. “I’m a senior executive. I make $1.5 million a year.”
Silence.
Then a tiny voice: “That’s not funny.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
“Because I wanted a partner. Not a dependent.”
He scrambled to recover. “We can fix this. I was stressed. My mom—”
“No. You meant what you said.”
Iris slid over another document—our emergency motion.
Damon’s voice turned to pleading. “Please tell them to leave.”
“Pack a bag,” I told him steadily. “You’re the one leaving.”
Damon gasped. “You can’t kick me out!”
“I’m not. A judge is. Attempted unlawful eviction plus verbal abuse—you kindly put the evidence in writing.”
“What writing?!”
“The texts where you told me to ‘crawl out’ and ‘take my sick body somewhere else.’”
In the background, I heard male voices. Then: “Sir, step back. This is a service of notice.”
“They’re taking my laptop!” Damon cried. “They said it might be tied to the mortgage.”
