Betrayed at the Altar He Sold My Home Behind My Back

The property manager pulled up the records.

One glance, and my hands went cold.

The signature on the authorization document wasn't mine.

But in the bottom right corner was a red thumbprint.

My thumbprint.

Last month, Fabian said there were extra forms to fill out for our premarital medical check.

He'd brought home a stack of papers and asked me to sign and stamp each one.

I'd even teased him about it.

“Since when does a medical check need this many thumbprints?”

He said：

“New regulations. They're cracking down on people sending proxies.”

I believed him.

Now, that thumbprint was on an authorization document.

Granting him permission to change the locks on my apartment.

Arnold's expression hardened.

“This is no longer a simple relationship dispute.”

“This is forgery of a legal authorization document.”

I stared at the screen.

“Can you pull up the security footage?”

The property manager nodded immediately.

On the footage, three days ago, two in the afternoon.

Fabian walked into the elevator lobby with Felicia.

And with them was a middle-aged woman.

My breath caught.

That was Fabian's mother.

Emma Lambert.

She was carrying a bag of apples, her face creased with a wide smile.

While the locksmith swapped out the smart lock, she stood right beside him, giving directions.

“Set the passcode to my son's birthday.”

“This is the young couple's place now. A mother-in-law needs to be able to get in.”

I watched that woman on the screen, and a chill crawled through every part of me.

So she knew.

She didn't just know. She was part of it.

Right then, Arnold's phone rang.

He stepped aside to take the call.

When he came back, his face looked worse than before.

“Ms. Fox.”

“Your apartment wasn't just re-keyed.”

I looked up.

“What do you mean?”

He handed me his phone.

On the screen was a listing page on a resale property platform.

The photos were of my unit at Bayview Towers.

The headline read：

“Owner selling urgently. Wedding-ready renovation, designer furniture throughout. $30,000 below market.”

Contact： Ms. Lambert.

The last four digits of the phone number. I recognized them.

It was Emma Lambert.

I kept scrolling.

The page showed：

Earnest deposit received: $20,000.

My finger froze on the screen.

“She's selling my apartment?”

Arnold's voice dropped low.

“There's more.”

He opened another document.

A title transfer appointment confirmation.

Scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten.

Property address: Bayview Towers, Building 12, Unit 2701.

My apartment.

I stared at that line, the cold spreading up my fingers one knuckle at a time.

“The deed is in my hands. How can they close?”

Arnold said：

“The agent claims they have a notarized power of attorney from the owner herself.”

“The closing appointment is really just a placeholder filed with preliminary documents. It hasn't passed review yet.”

“But if we don't stop it now, things will get very complicated.”

My head buzzed white.

“That's impossible.”

“I've never set foot in a notary office.”

Arnold said nothing.

He pulled up another screenshot from a security camera.

In the image, Emma Lambert had her arm linked with a woman.

The woman was wearing a mask, my white button-down shirt, and a low ponytail.

From behind, she could have been me.

She was sitting at the service window.

Stroke by careful stroke, she signed my name.

In that instant, something absurd flickered through my mind.

As if the world had actually produced another “me.”

She opened my door.

Signed my name.

Sold the one safety net my parents had ever given me.

Arnold kept his voice barely above a whisper.

“Ms. Fox.”

“Someone impersonated you.”

“Tomorrow at ten, they're closing the deal.”

“If that closing goes through, this won't be a relationship dispute anymore.”

“It'll be property theft.”

I stared at the screenshot.

The blood drained from my body, inch by inch, turning cold.

Fabian.

Felicia.

Emma.

This wasn't impulsive.

They'd planned it from the start.

The safety net my parents had spent half their lives saving for was, in their eyes, just something to live in, con away, sell off, and cash out.

I took my phone back.

Dialed Fabian.

He picked up fast.

His tone was hostile.

“So you finally decided to call?”

I kept my voice even：

“Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. The closing?”

Silence on the other end.

I continued：

“Fabian.”

“You'd better come explain yourself. Now.”

“Because in ten minutes, I'm calling the police.”