I returned home.
The home Daphne and I had once decorated together with our own hands.
Now it was filled with a stranger's presence.
At the entryway sat a pair of limited-edition men's sneakers I didn't recognize.
On the coffee table in the living room lay a half-finished box of cigars—definitely not the brand I smoked.
The studio I treasured most, the one dedicated entirely to my design drafts, was locked shut.
I walked over and pressed my thumb against the fingerprint lock.
"Beep. Verification failed." The cold mechanical voice echoed in the quiet apartment.
My fingerprint had already been deleted.
My heart sank, little by little.
Instinctively, I moved toward the master bedroom. Inside the walk-in closet, the half that used to belong to me had been completely cleared out.
In its place hung rows of luxury men's clothing from brands I didn't recognize. Every piece carried the same gaudy, arrogant style that suited Ronan perfectly.
So while I had been away for half a month, my home had already become someone else's nest.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
Standing outside was the building's property manager, Gordon Pike, wearing a flattering smile.
Behind him stood Ronan.
"Oh, Mr. Cross, you're home." Mr. Pike's tone carried a hint of thinly veiled disdain.
"Here's what's going on. Mr. Ashford has just filed a complaint with property management. He says you're refusing to leave the apartment he rented and are interfering with his normal life."
Ronan crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the doorframe. The way he looked at me was the same way someone would watch a clown performing on a stage.
"My girlfriend has a soft heart. She let you stay here for a few days out of pity," he said with a sneer. "And you really started thinking you were the owner?"
He tilted his chin toward the manager. "Mr. Pike, when someone refuses to leave like this, what's the usual procedure?"
Mr. Pike immediately bent slightly at the waist, nodding eagerly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ashford. We'll handle it right away."
Then he turned toward me, his expression switching to a cold, official mask. "Mr. Cross, since you are not the resident here, please leave immediately. Otherwise, we'll have to call security."
I laughed in disbelief.
"Mr. Pike, you've worked in this building for five years. You're telling me you don't recognize me? My name is on the property deed of this apartment. Landon Cross. I'm the owner."
Ronan burst out laughing exaggeratedly, as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world.
"Your name?" he mocked. "Landon, are you still dreaming?"
He pulled a document from his pocket and waved it in front of me. It was a printed lease agreement.
Clear black text across white paper.
The landlord: Daphne Sinclair.
The tenant: Ronan Ashford.
"Read it carefully," Ronan said. He tapped the contract against my face, humiliation gleaming in his eyes. "Black and white. Right now, I'm the legal tenant here.
"And you?" His smile widened. "You're just an illegal trespasser."
"Mr. Pike, what are you waiting for?" he said impatiently. "Call security and throw him out."
I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
This top-floor duplex was the apartment I bought with every dollar of the prize money after winning an international design award.
Back then, Daphne had said that women needed a sense of security. She said she would only feel loved if the property certificate carried her name alone.
I loved and trusted her.
Without hesitation, I had agreed. I thought it was proof of our love.
I never imagined it would become the very weapon she used to betray and humiliate me.
Amid the harsh static of the walkie-talkie, several uniformed security guards rushed over and surrounded me.
"That's him!" Ronan ordered arrogantly.
"Throw him out!"
