I was still reeling from the news that my great-aunt had left me her estate when my husband handed me divorce papers. Then I found out he was suing me for half of everything, including my inheritance. Weeks later, he got what he wanted—and my laughter echoed through the courtroom.
I drove home from the lawyer’s office in a daze. My great-aunt Lila had passed away recently and, to my surprise, left me her estate. Three stories of limestone and ivy-covered brick from the late 1800s, with wrought-iron gates, sweeping staircases, and fireplaces in every room. It had hosted charity galas, garden tours, even a magazine shoot in the 80s. It was mine now, and I didn’t know how to process it.
I called for Nathan, my husband. He was watching a documentary. I sat beside him, and he rubbed my back. “So, she left you the estate?” he asked. “Yeah. The whole thing. It’s crazy. I signed the paperwork right there.”
Nathan stood, left the room, and returned with a folder. “I’m sorry about the timing, but there’s no point in putting it off.” Inside were divorce papers. My stomach lurched like an elevator dropping too fast. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered. “You’ll be better off,” he said steadily. “I’ve been unhappy for a long time, Miranda.”
I packed a bag and drove to my friend Tessa’s apartment at one in the morning. She pulled me inside without questions. “He said he loved me,” I kept repeating. “He said we’d get through anything.” “People say a lot of things,” she murmured. “Doesn’t make them true.”
Later that week, I sat in another lawyer’s office. Mr. Kravitz flipped through my file. “Nathan’s pushing for full equity division—the house, accounts, pension, and the estate.” “The estate’s mine,” I said. “Right,” he replied gently. “But you’re married in community of property. Without a prenup, anything acquired during marriage is up for division.” “But it was an inheritance.” “Doesn’t matter. You received it while married. He can sue for half.”
Then Kravitz added, “He filed for divorce about half an hour after you signed the inheritance paperwork.” My blood ran cold. I checked my texts—I had told Nathan I was signing papers. He planned this. He waited until I got the estate before filing.
I thought of the estate’s turrets, gardens, marble floors, and lanterns strung through oak trees. Something shifted inside me. Devastation hardened into resolve. “Let’s give him the fight of his life,” I told Kravitz.
That evening, I received inspection reports and photos of the estate. Black mold veined the ceilings, beams collapsed, and a preservation notice stamped in red declared it a protected site. Nathan had fought dirty, but now I had a better idea.
In court, Nathan lounged in a crisp suit, smirking. His lawyer argued the estate was symbolic of family legacy, claiming I was unsuited to manage it. My lawyer countered that the will named only me. The judge asked if we’d settle.
I hesitated, shoulders trembling. “If I retain full rights to the rental property, the house, and our accounts, then he can have the estate.”
Nathan’s grin spread. “I agree.” The judge finalized it. Nathan looked like he’d won the lottery. And then I laughed—bright, sharp, echoing through the courtroom.
Outside, Nathan chased me down the courthouse steps. “Why were you laughing?” I showed him the photos: mold, collapsed beams, the preservation notice. “That’s your new legacy. You can’t tear it down, can’t insure it, can’t sell it. Fixing it will cost more than it’s worth.”
His face drained of color. “You knew. You tricked me!” “I gave you what you wanted,” I said evenly. “It just so happened to be exactly what you deserve.”
