It was the original restaurant.
Our first one.
The narrow brick building where Emma and I had
worked eighteen-hour days. The place where she had painted the bathroom herself because we couldn’t afford contractors. The place where our life had changed.
The listed buyer was Ashford Hospitality Consulting.
The request had been prepared three weeks ago.
My signature line was blank.Learn a Language
For now.
“They’re trying to sell it,” I said.
Samuel nodded. “The closing is scheduled in ten days.”
Emma covered her mouth.
I picked up the document and felt something inside me go still. The mansion was money. The cars were money. The jewelry, the parties, the inflated expenses—all money.
But the restaurant was ours.
Not legally alone.
Emotionally.
Historically.
It was the ground floor of our marriage.
“Can they do it?” I asked.
“Not without your signature,” Samuel said. “Or what appears to be your signature.”Learn a Language
