The roast chicken was still steaming when Heath pushed both of our untouched plates to the far end of the kitchen island.

The sound of the front doorbell ringing made Heath jump as if a gun had gone off.

I stood up from my barstool, gathered the notarized trust documents, and slid them back into my leather portfolio. "That will be Gary," I said pleasantly. "He’s here to re-key the front door, the back patio, and the garage deadbolts."

"You can't do this!" Heath yelled, rushing around the island to block my path to the hallway. "Claire, stop this right now! We are husband and wife! We can talk about this like adults! We can throw out that stupid paper!"

"We are talking like adults, Heath," I said, stopping a foot away from him. "An adult reads contracts before signing them. An adult doesn't plot with his mother to seize his spouse's bank accounts six days after saying 'I do.'"

"I was just trying to secure our future!" he protested, his voice cracking with desperate emotion. "Mom was just helping us budget!"

"Mom was trying to bleed me dry," I corrected him.

I walked past him toward the front door and opened it. Gary, a burly locksmith holding a heavy toolbox, offered a polite nod. "Morning, Claire. Got the work order from Ms. Vance’s office. Changing out all six cylinders?"

"All six," I confirmed. "Starting with the front door right now, please."

Rhonda came marching out of the kitchen, her binder clutched tightly against her chest like a shield. Her face was dark with fury. "This is illegal! You are kicking my son out onto the street in his bathrobe! I am calling the police!"

"Please do, Rhonda," Melissa’s voice chimed in from my phone, still connected over the bluetooth speaker on the entryway table. "Officer Miller—no relation, ironicaly—is already aware of the situation. The precinct was provided with a copy of the recorded trust agreement and the eviction order at dawn. If you remain on the property past 7:00 AM, you will be cited for criminal trespass."

Rhonda stopped in her tracks, her cell phone half-pulled from her coat pocket. She looked at the clock on the wall: 6:38 AM.

"Heath," she hissed, grabbing her son’s silk sleeve. "Go upstairs right now and get your things."

"My things?!" Heath stammered, looking around the foyer in total disbelief. "Mom, my clothes are upstairs! My watch collection is in the safe! My laptop—"

"You have twenty minutes, Mr. Miller," I said, checking my watch. "Gary will be finished with the upstairs deadbolt by 7:00 AM. Anything you leave behind will be packed into wardrobe boxes and placed on the front lawn."

"You wouldn't dare," Heath whispered, staring at me as if looking at a total stranger.

"Try me," I replied.

The next twenty minutes were a chaotic blur of noise and desperate motion. Heath ran up and down the stairs like a madman, throwing suits, shoes, and armfuls of casual clothes into mismatched duffel bags and black garbage sacks. Rhonda stood by the front door, spewing a continuous stream of venom about how ungrateful, conniving, and cold-hearted I was, while Gary methodically drilled out the old locks with a loud, mechanical whir.

With every metallic click of a new key being fitted into my doors, I felt a layer of tension lift from my shoulders.

At 6:58 AM, Heath came dragging three heavy suitcases down the stairs, his silk robe thrown hastily over a pair of sweatpants. He looked disheveled, defeated, and completely shattered.

"Claire," he begged, standing in the open doorway as Gary locked the new deadbolt from the outside. "Please. We can fix this. I'll drop the budget idea. I'll tell Mom to stay out of our business. Just let me stay."

I looked at the man I had married six days ago. I didn't see a partner. I saw a hunter who had realized too late that he had walked into his own snare.

"Your mother left her budget binder on the island, Heath," I said calmly. "Don't forget to take it with you."

I gently pushed the heavy oak door shut. The new deadbolt slid into place with a heavy, definitive thunk.

Through the decorative side glass, I watched Heath and Rhonda drag his bags down the concrete walkway in the early morning fog.