Chapter 3

I went directly to the Land Registry Office.

The building was nearly closing when I arrived. I took a number, sat in the waiting area, and felt like I was sitting on the edge of a blade.

When they called me, the clerk glanced at the screen and looked up:

"Are you the registered owner, Harper Sterling?"

One sentence. Like a hand reaching into my chest and snuffing out the last small flame of maybe I've got this wrong.

I pushed my ID across. My voice was steady.

"No, I'm not. I'm the person who paid. I want to check the registration record for this property — and the documents filed during the process."

The clerk had seen this before. No visible reaction. "We can't share another person's detailed information. But you're entitled to request access to certain materials. If there's a dispute, the recommended route is civil proceedings."

"The purchase was cash. I paid every penny."

Her manner softened slightly.

"Based on our records, the purchase contract was signed by Harper Sterling. The application documents are complete and the process is closed."

The sound in my ears was like a bell struck underwater.

"The sale contract was signed by Harper Sterling?"

"Yes."

"How is that possible?"

I clearly remembered going to the developer's sales office. I remembered signing my name — multiple pages. I'd even photographed the cover and the last page and sent it to Conrad, saying: we finally have a home.

The clerk looked at my disbelief.

"You're welcome to check whatever documents you kept. If there's evidence of forged signatures or false authorisation, you should file a police report and pursue legal action."

I thanked her. I took the form. I sat on the front steps and went through my phone.

Every scroll made it colder.

That day at the sales office, I'd only photographed the cover page and the last signature page.

The last page had come out slightly blurred.

And Conrad — I remembered now — had said partway through: don't worry about those middle sections, those are standard forms, I'll collate them later.

I'd been tired of the paperwork. I'd trusted him.

I genuinely had.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Conrad. Long.

Stella, I know you're angry, but it's not what you're imagining. Harper's had a hard few years. I owe her something, and putting the flat in her name was just a way to make it up to her. But you're the person I'm marrying. You know I love you. Can you be mature about this? The past is the past. The flat will be yours to live in eventually — what's the point of making it into something? I'm yours. Isn't that enough?

I read it twice. Then I laughed out loud.

I'm yours. The way he said it. Like he was doing me a favour.

I didn't reply.

The next message was from Harper.

A photo.

She was standing in front of the bedroom mirror.

In my wedding dress.

The dress I'd collected from the bridal boutique that afternoon, hung in the bedroom, ready for tomorrow.

She'd added a caption.

The waist is a little loose on me — but honestly, it works.

I stared at that photo. Then I packaged everything — the screenshots, the deed photo, the payment records — and sent it all to my best friend Sadie.

One line attached:

Get me a good solicitor. Now.

Sadie called immediately.

"Where are you?"

"Steps outside the Land Registry."

"Don't move. I'm coming."

By the time Sadie arrived, it was dark.

She came sprinting across the pavement in heels, and her first words when she saw me were: "The fact that you haven't gone back up there and thrown them both off the sixteenth floor is genuinely impressive."

I managed something like a smile.

"I was considering throwing myself. Asking myself what I'd been thinking."

"You'd been thinking you were in love." Sadie pressed a cup of bubble tea into my hands. "Surgery's tonight."

She moved fast. Before we'd even reached her car, she'd forwarded me a contact.

Name: Elliot Bramwell.

Note: My brother's friend. Property law, high-conflict cases. Brutal in court, worse in negotiations. He hates men who use women's money to perform devotion.

I opened Elliot's profile photo. Pure black.

His social feed — visible three days only — was empty.

I typed: Hello. I need to consult on a property dispute.

He replied within seconds.

Phone or in person?

I hesitated.

Sadie caught a glimpse and let out a low whistle.

"That response time. All right."

I typed: In person. I'm free right now.

He sent the address of a 24-hour café in Clerkenwell.

I can be there in twenty minutes.

When I arrived, I understood what Sadie meant by "brutal."

He was wearing a simple white shirt, cuffs folded to the forearm. No expression on his face, but his eyes were very steady. He looked through every piece of evidence on my phone without a single word of comfort. Then:

"Transfer records for the purchase payments — can you pull the original bank statements?"

"Yes."

"The developer's sales office on the day of signing — CCTV footage, sales staff on duty, any messages?"

"Probably, yes."

"Did you sign any blank documents?"

I was quiet for two seconds.

"A few."

Elliot looked up.

That look carried nothing. But it made me feel heat in my face anyway.

Like being studied by someone who'd seen exactly how thoroughly I'd been deceived.

I held his gaze. "I know. It was foolish."

"You know now. That's not too late."

He slid my phone back. His voice was quick and precise.

"First — this isn't a quarrel over a man. This is textbook financial appropriation and possible document fraud. Don't let anyone reframe it."

"Second — from this moment, don't discuss feelings with Conrad. Evidence only."

"Third — if you've already decided to cancel the wedding, don't give him any breathing room. Breathing room is how people transfer assets and align their stories."

I looked at him.

"Do you think I can get the flat back?"

"That depends on the evidence. But there's one thing I can tell you now."

"What?"

"They won't digest this as easily as they think."

In that moment, the breath I'd been holding all evening finally shifted.

"Why are you sure?"

Elliot looked at me.

"Because I've seen too many people like them. They're very good at making victims believe the fight is already lost."

He turned to his laptop and started a list.

"Tonight. Three things."

"Pull every payment record you have. The more detail, the better."

"Back up every message thread with Conrad — especially anything about the flat, the wedding, renovation, furniture, payments."

"And don't delete anything Harper has sent you. The more pleased with herself she is, the more she'll leave behind."