“Daniel. He’s three months old. Mark’s son, too, if you’re wondering. It’s a shame he’ll never meet his dad. Mark always wanted a boy.”
Susan stood up, feeling that if she stayed in this house a minute longer, she would break. Alina walked her to the door, adding one last thing as she left.
“By the way, don’t even think about challenging the loan. I have recordings of our conversations where Mark explains exactly why he’s borrowing the money. Any court will side with me.”
On the drive home, Susan pulled over to the side of the road and finally let herself cry. Ten years of marriage had been a lie. The man she had loved and trusted had been living a double life, and now his betrayal was about to leave her and her children homeless. But tears wouldn’t solve the problem. She had to act.
Susan wiped her eyes and drove to the bank. Maybe she could find out something more about the loan there, though she didn’t have much hope.
At the bank, Susan met with the head of the loan department, Victor Grant. He was a man in his fifties with manicured hands and an expensive suit. He listened to her story with a look of practiced sympathy, nodding occasionally. His office was furnished with ostentatious luxury: leather chairs, gilded paintings, and a massive mahogany desk.
“I understand your situation, Mrs. Morrow. Losing a husband is a terrible tragedy. But financial obligations, I’m afraid, don’t just disappear,” Grant said, leafing through a file. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were cold.
Susan tried to explain that she knew nothing about the loan, that her husband had taken it out without her knowledge. Grant shook his head.
“Unfortunately, spousal consent isn’t required when the collateral is jointly owned property. Your husband had every right to leverage the asset.”
“But fifty thousand dollars is a huge amount. Didn’t the bank verify what the money was for?” Susan felt a wave of desperation.
“We don’t monitor the use of funds for personal loans,” Grant said, spreading his hands. “The client stated the purpose was ‘personal expenses.’ Legally, that’s all we need.”
He got up from his desk and walked to the window. Then he turned back to Susan with a thoughtful expression.
“Although… there might be a way to resolve this. The loan was processed in a hurry. It’s possible some formalities were overlooked.”
Susan felt a flicker of hope.
“What do you mean?”
Grant returned to the desk and sat on the edge, much too close to her. He placed a hand on her knee.
“You see, these kinds of issues require a more personal approach. Perhaps we could discuss the details in a less formal setting. Over dinner, say…”
Susan recoiled, pushing his hand away.
“I came here to discuss a financial matter, not to find a benefactor.”
Grant’s face hardened instantly. The professional smile vanished, replaced by cold irritation.
“In that case, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. The foreclosure process has been initiated, and it can’t be stopped. You should prepare to vacate the property.”
Susan left the bank feeling trapped. Every attempt to find a way out only made things worse. She drove to a lawyer she found online. The attorney, Simon Kovacs, met her in a small office on the third floor of an old building. He carefully reviewed the documents Susan had printed from her husband’s phone, shaking his head several times.
“This is a tough situation,” he admitted finally. “The loan agreement is ironclad. Your husband’s signature is authentic. From a legal standpoint, the bank is within its rights.”
“And from an illegal one?” Susan asked.
Kovacs shrugged.
“We could try to contest the contract, argue that your husband was under duress or not of sound mind. But that would require witnesses, medical records, expert testimony. The process could take years.”
“And how much would it cost?”
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