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Twenty minutes later, Conrad arrived.

He came through the door and looked at me first — brow creased, like I'd created an inconvenience.

"Harper, go to the room for now."

I looked at him.

"The room."

"Stella." His voice dropped. "Are you really going to pick at every word right now?"

"What would you prefer I pick at? Swallow this whole and pretend I didn't see anything?"

He rubbed his temples, came toward me, reached for my arm. "Come outside. Let me talk to you."

I pulled away.

"Talk here."

Harper leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching.

Conrad's expression darkened. He laid out his explanation under his breath:

"There was a technical issue with the paperwork at the time — you were busy, the qualification checks were taking too long, so I put it in Harper's name temporarily. We'll sort out the transfer after the wedding."

"Qualification checks?" I looked at him. "It was a cash purchase. What qualifications? I've bought property before."

He paused. Pressed on. "It's not as simple as you're thinking, there are developer processes, stamp duty optimisation, things you wouldn't—"

"So because I wouldn't know, you put it in her name?"

"It's temporary."

"Temporary. And meanwhile she's moved in, wearing my slippers, in my bedroom?"

That finally cracked his patience.

"She's just back from abroad, she needed somewhere to stay, I offered for a few days — what's the big deal?"

"She can stay. But why does the deed say her name?"

"I told you. The paperwork."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He looked at me, and something in him finally stopped pretending.

"Because I knew you'd make it into something."

"So you just went ahead without telling me?"

"Stella, we're getting married tomorrow. Can you not spend tonight making everything into a crisis? The flat will be ours either way. What difference does it make whose name is on the title right now?"

I stared at him.

I stored that sentence somewhere I would not forget.

What difference does it make.

My £860,000. My parents' retirement fund sold to help me. And he said: what difference does it make whose name is on the deed.

I looked at Harper. I finally understood why they dared to be this brazen.

Because they'd decided, at the bone level, that I wouldn't walk away.

Five years. I'd been with him since we were in our twenties. I helped him keep his startup afloat when the money ran out — I covered payroll shortfalls with my own savings. When his mother was in hospital, I was the one who stayed three days and sorted everything. This flat: not a deposit, not part-payment — every penny, full cash. My savings. My parents' money from selling their home in Surrey. My mother had cried and said: when our daughter gets married, she should have a proper place to live.

I'd held her and promised we'd have a good life.

And that promise had been written into Harper Sterling's name.

I breathed in slowly and looked at Conrad.

"Give me the deed."

He blinked. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm asking again. The deed."

Harper stepped back and tucked it behind her, smiling.

"This is my document. Why would I give it to you?"

I walked over and grabbed her wrist.

She hadn't expected me to actually move. Her face shifted. "Let go of me."

"Give me the deed."

"Conrad!"

Conrad came to pry my hand away. "Stella, that's enough."

The next second, I raised my hand and slapped him across the face.

The living room went silent.

Conrad turned his head slowly. His eyes were pure shock.

I hadn't expected to hit him so cleanly either.

But when my palm connected, something in my chest released.

"That's for me." I held his gaze. "Conrad Dunmore, I haven't made a scene. I've woken up."

I pulled free of him, snatched at the deed. In the struggle, it fell to the floor — face-up, open to the page I'd seen.

Legal proprietor: Harper Sterling.

Co-owner: blank.

My name hadn't even touched the edge of it.

I crouched, picked it up, photographed it. Then I walked out.

Conrad followed me to the door. "Stella, don't do anything drastic — let's get the wedding done first, everything else can wait."

I stopped. Turned around.

"You think I'm still going to marry you?"

"You'd throw away five years over a flat?"

"It's not about the flat." I held his eyes, one word at a time. "It's because I've finally understood that for five years, I was the only one who was serious."

He opened his mouth.

I didn't give him the chance.

"The wedding's off. And I'm taking the flat back. Neither of you is going anywhere."

I let the door slam. In the lift, as the doors closed, I noticed my hands were shaking.

Not from fear.

From a fury so complete it had gone numb.

The mirror in the lift showed my face — white as chalk.

I set my jaw and told myself: don't cry yet.

Crying now would be giving them too much.