I bought my house three years before I ever met Rami. Signing those papers felt like planting a flag in the middle of my life: mine. After the wedding, he moved in rent-free. We painted a wall, hung curtains, picked out a ridiculous rug. I thought we were a team.
Then one night over takeout he said, casual as a yawn, “We’re married now. I want my name on the deed.”
I didn’t even put down my fork. “No. It’s my property.”
Something cold flickered across his face. He laughed, a little too loud, and dropped it. The next day my phone rang at work.
“Ma’am, this is the mortgage fraud department. We received an inquiry to refinance your home. Can we confirm you authorized that?”
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