The property transfer papers were already completed. My father’s small brick house—the one he had renovated with his own hands, the one he had left solely to me—would become jointly owned by Luca and me.
I slid the papers back across the marble island. “No.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re my wife.”
“And it’s my inheritance.”
His mother, Wendy, sat at the breakfast table drinking coffee as though she had bought a front-row seat to watch me give in. “You live under my son’s protection, Jessi,” she said coldly. “Stop acting like some rich widow. Your father left you one house, not an empire.”
EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT, I REFUSED TO GIVE MY LATE FATHER’S HOUSE TO MY HUSBAND—SO HE SHOVED ME INTO A BOILING STOCKPOT
