She Forgot That I Own the House

After I buy a house with my dad's inheritance, my girlfriend, Claire Dickson—who's also an interior designer—handles the renovation. Upon moving in, I realize she gives her three childhood friends, Terry Boyle, Mark Sullivan, and Wayne Tucker, permanent fingerprint access. Meanwhile, I, the actual owner, am given only a temporary passcode. "We grew up together," she says. "They're practically family." Later, my study becomes Terry's livestreaming room, the patio fills with things they like, and the entryway has only four pairs of matching slippers. On my birthday, I work late into the night, only to find that my temporary passcode has expired. Through the window, I watch them celebrating Terry's birthday in my home. Claire refuses to let me in. "Everyone's having a good time. Just stay at a hotel tonight. Don't ruin the mood." I walk away without knocking again. The next day, I put the house on the market. They forget one thing—having permanent access doesn't mean it's their home. Chapter 1 I had just woken up at the hotel when I got a call from the realtor, Eric Wood. "Mr. Scott, are you sure you want to sell the house?" he asked. "Yes," I replied firmly. "Is anyone currently living there?" I checked the security cameras on my phone. The living room was a mess. Empty liquor bottles were scattered across the carpet, while the lighting equipment and boxes from last night's livestream were piled on the couch. My girlfriend, Claire Dickson, was making coffee for her childhood sweetheart, Terry Boyle, while Mark Sullivan and Wayne Tucker were still asleep in the guest rooms. The four of them looked completely at home, as if the house belonged to them. "It'll be empty by today," I told Eric. After hanging up, I opened the smart lock app. There were four permanent users—Claire, Terry, Mark, and Wayne. My name wasn't on the list. After the renovations were done, Claire had told me the lock system hadn't been set up properly yet and gave me a temporary passcode instead. I hadn't thought much of it. The house was supposed to be our future home after we got married. She was an interior designer, so I trusted her with the renovation. Only now did I realize that "the system hadn't been set up" was just an excuse. She had simply never added me to it. I selected their names, tapped "Delete", and then hit "Confirm" when the system asked me to revoke their permanent access. After that, I texted Eric the address along with a photo of the deed. "You can come by this afternoon to take photos for the listing," I said. It hit me then that yesterday was my 30th birthday. Claire had forgotten completely. And yet, I had picked up a birthday cake for Terry. She had texted me that afternoon and asked me to bring it home on my way back from work because she was busy. They'd probably finished off the cake by now. I hadn't noticed the name on it until last night. It wasn't mine. It was Terry's. At around 10:00 am, I returned to the house. Claire was standing outside, repeatedly pressing her thumb against the scanner. "What happened?" The moment she saw me, she demanded, "Is the lock broken?" I entered the admin code, and the door clicked open. She followed me inside, looking annoyed. "Why aren't any of our fingerprints working?" "I deleted them," I replied coldly. The living room fell silent. Terry poked his head out of the kitchen. He was wearing my bathrobe. "Come on, Andrew. Isn't that a bit much?" he said, without a trace of remorse. "We all just had a little too much to drink last night. We figured it was better for you to stay at a hotel and cool off instead of coming back and starting a fight." Mark came downstairs, yawning. "Why make such a big deal over a lock? Just add our fingerprints back. We're going to be here a lot anyway." Chapter 2 I glanced at Mark. "There won't be a next time." Just then, the doorbell rang. Eric was standing outside with a photographer. "Mr. Scott, we're here to take photos for the listing." Claire's face changed instantly. "What listing?" "I'm putting the house up for sale," I replied calmly. She grabbed my arm. "Andrew Scott, have you lost your mind? We just finished renovating this place, and you're selling it?" I pulled my arm free. "It's my house." "But I did all the renovation!" Her voice rose sharply. "I spent an entire year on this. I designed everything, picked out all the materials, and put my heart into every detail." I looked around the house. Four matching pairs of slippers sat in the entryway cabinet. A huge photo hung in the center of the living room, showing Claire and her three childhood friends posing in front of a snowy mountain. The bookshelves I'd picked out for the study had been removed and replaced with a backdrop for livestreams. The patio space I'd set aside for my late dad's belongings had been turned into a barbecue station and camping area. Even half the walk-in closet in the master bedroom was filled with matching jackets for the four of them. I had lived there for three months, but I could barely find anything that was actually mine. "Oh, really?" I asked. "Did you design our future home or a private clubhouse for the four of you?" Claire froze for a second, then frowned. "They're my closest friends, so of course they're going to come over a lot. You're going to marry me. Can't you accept that they're part of my life?" There it was again. Whenever I complained, she'd turn it back on me and say I was being selfish. When Terry borrowed my car, she said friends shouldn't keep score. When Mark brought his friends over to play video games all night, she said it was no big deal. When Wayne popped open a bottle from my wine collection, she said alcohol was bought to be drunk anyway. Yet when I wanted to use my own study, Terry was always livestreaming in there. When I wanted to relax on the patio, they said I was getting in the way. And last night, when I wanted to come back to my own house, they wouldn't let me in. I stepped aside to let Eric in. "You have 48 hours to pack your stuff. Anything left behind after that will be treated as abandoned property," I told the four of them. When Eric reached the study, he paused. "Mr. Scott, it looks like a business is registered at this address." He pointed to an acrylic plaque mounted on the wall that read "Flow Media", with my address printed underneath it. I walked over and stared at it. It was the first time I'd realized that Terry's company was officially registered at my address. "It just made livestreaming easier," Terry said dismissively. "It's not like I'm actually running a business here." Eric shook his head. "Having a business registered at a residential address is a serious issue. You'll need to get that cleared up before we can list the property." I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the plaque. The smile finally faded from Terry's face. "Andrew, don't make this so serious. We're going to be family eventually. What's the big deal about borrowing your address for a bit?" "Who said we're family?" I shot back. Terry froze. Claire immediately stepped in front of him. "Andrew, if you're angry, take it out on me. I was the one who let him use the address." I nodded. "Alright then, we'll deal with it together." Chapter 3 The photographer continued taking pictures. When we reached the living room, a design statement on the wall caught my eye. Below it sat a thick portfolio, its cover printed with the title, "A Home in Harmony—The Ideal Living Space for Four Lifelong Friends." It was Claire's entry for the National Youth Interior Design Competition. The project description read, "Four friends who have known each other for 20 years come together to create a permanent home built around friendship and shared dreams." The owner's name had been blurred out. But under "Clients", it listed Claire Dickson, Terry Boyle, Mark Sullivan, and Wayne Tucker. My name was nowhere to be found. The house I'd bought with my dad's inheritance was portrayed in her project as a home the four of them owned together. "What's this?" I asked, holding up the portfolio. A flicker of unease crossed Claire's face. "It's just how I presented the project for the competition. The judges like projects with a story. Framing it around the four of us gives it more emotional impact." "And what about me?" I asked. "You're not in the design industry. What does it matter if your name isn't there?" She made it sound like I was just someone who had provided the house, with no place in the story she was telling. Terry chimed in, trying to smooth things over. "Come on, man. If Claire wins, it benefits you too. You get to brag to everyone that your place was designed by an award-winning designer." I closed the portfolio and asked, "Did you get my permission before entering my house in the competition?" "We're getting married. Do I really need to get your permission and sign an authorization form?" Claire looked at me irritably. "Andrew, why are you turning everything into an issue today?" I scoffed. "Because it's an issue. And we're going to settle everything today." Realizing that I was angry with him, Terry walked away. While packing up my dad's belongings, I noticed that a model train set was missing. It was a discontinued collection of steam locomotives that my dad had spent three years building. He died of an illness before he could finish the final car. When I bought the place, I set aside a climate-controlled room specifically for his collection. But Claire complained that the models took up too much space and shoved most of them into storage cabinets. I opened the cabinets, but all I found were empty boxes. "Where are the models?" I asked. No one answered. I pulled up the security footage and scrolled back to two weeks ago. The video showed Terry walking into the livestream room holding the model set. He announced, "We just hit 100,000 viewers today, guys! To celebrate, I'm giving away this discontinued handmade model set to a lucky fan!" The live chat went wild. Sitting off-camera, Claire laughed. "That thing is worth a lot. Are you really giving it away?" Terry waved it off. "Doesn't matter how much it's worth. It's nothing compared to my fans." For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I fast-forwarded the video. After the livestream ended, Claire even praised him for knowing how to drive engagement. Neither of them cared who the model train set belonged to. I closed the video and called Terry. He answered quickly. "Where's the model train set?" I asked, gritting my teeth. There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. "Andrew, why are you suddenly asking about it?" "Where is it?" I raised my voice. Terry cleared his throat. "The winner hasn't sent us an address yet, so I haven't shipped it. It's in the back of the storage room." When I found the model set, the box had been ripped open. The coupling on one of the train cars had snapped. My dad had painstakingly made that piece by hand. Now it had been hastily held together with tape. Claire came over and saw me crouched on the floor. Her voice softened slightly. "I'm sure you can fix it. You build models all the time anyway." I looked up at her. "This belonged to my dad." "I know," she said. After a brief pause, she added, "But it was just sitting there. Terry's channel is taking off right now, and using it for a giveaway really helped his numbers." I stared at her for a long time. We'd been together for five years. She knew it had always been just my dad and me, and she knew how much that model set meant to me. Yet in her eyes, something my dad had left me was still less important than a quick boost in Terry's numbers. "Claire, if someone had given away something your dad left behind, would you still say the same thing?" I asked. Her expression changed. "Do you really have to make that comparison? Besides, the model is right here!" I didn't bother arguing. I simply gathered all the models and put them back in their boxes one by one. There was no point arguing with someone who wasn't willing to understand why I was hurt. All Claire cared about was whether my pain would get in their way. Chapter 4 That night, I stayed in the company's employee housing. While reviewing the renovation expenses, I realized we'd gone nearly 250,000 dollars over budget. Claire had told me the extra cost was due to rising material prices. I trusted her, so I always paid everything without question. But I noticed several material charges for the exact same amount. They came from different suppliers, but the payments all went to Claire's design studio. I called one of the lumber suppliers to ask about it. After checking their records, the guy said hesitantly, "Mr. Scott… we gave Ms. Dickson a 15% referral commission on this project." "A commission?" My eyebrows shot up. "Yes. It's a standard industry arrangement. There's something else, though. You paid us in full, but she also asked us to sponsor some of the materials for her competition entry." After hanging up, I contacted the other suppliers. The tile company, lighting supplier, appliance company, and custom cabinet maker had all paid Claire kickbacks. The brands had even sponsored two furniture orders, yet Claire had still charged me full price for them. I gathered all the records together. She had claimed that she was designing my home for free, but it had been a business deal from the start. She had taken my money for the renovation, entered my house in a design competition, used my address for Terry's business, and turned my home into a showcase for their friendship. The next day, Claire came to my office. She placed the smart lock access form on my desk. "Take the house off the market," she said. "I'll add your fingerprint." I looked at her without saying a word. Thinking I was still holding a grudge, she softened her tone. "I was wrong to lock you out yesterday. But everyone had been drinking. If you came inside, it would've turned into a huge scene. I told you to stay in a hotel to prevent a fight." She still thought I would have caused a scene if I'd been allowed back into my own home. "The house stays on the market," I said firmly. Claire lost her patience. "What about my competition entry?" So she hadn't come to apologize for locking me out on my birthday or for nearly giving away my dad's keepsakes. She was only worried about her competition. "Withdraw it." "Why should I?" she asked. "Because the house is mine." Claire clenched her fists. After a moment, she said, "Look, if you feel left out, I'll ask them to come over less. Or you could add my name to the deed. Once the house is in both our names, you won't feel like I care more about them than you." I almost laughed at how ridiculous that sounded. I paid for everything, got locked out of my own home, and now I was supposed to put half my property in her name to prove my commitment? "Claire," I said, sliding the printouts documenting her kickbacks across the desk. "How do you explain these?" The moment she saw the first page, the color drained from her face.