He went quiet. “Nathan, are you sure? Once the house goes into an irrevocable trust, it is not something you just undo over coffee.”
“I know.”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’d rather have the umbrella and not need it than need it and watch the storm come through my roof.”
Morgan sighed. “I’ll call my attorney. Her name is Sierra. She’s good. She’ll set it up clean.”
Two weeks later, I sat across from Sierra in her office on Brickell Avenue. She was sharp, organized, and spoke in the clear, direct way of someone who did not waste words.
She explained everything.
The house would go into an irrevocable trust. I would remain the sole beneficiary and trustee during my lifetime. The property could not be sold, transferred, or encumbered without my explicit written consent as trustee, with witnesses, notarization, and a mandatory seventy-two-hour review period built into the process.
Any attempt to sell or transfer the property without that exact procedure would not merely be challenged.
It would be void.
As in, legally, it never happened.
Sierra slid the documents across the desk and said, “This is about as strong as I can make it. Nobody is taking this house from you without going through a process that requires your cooperation at every step.”
I signed.
I did not tell Caitlyn.
I did not tell anyone except Morgan and Sierra.
I went home, placed the trust documents inside a fireproof safe in my bedroom closet, and returned to watching.
The wedding took place in June at an outdoor venue in Coral Gables, one of those places with Spanish tile, soft white walls, and bougainvillea climbing everywhere. There were one hundred and twenty guests. The air smelled like flowers and warm stone. Caitlyn wore Britney’s veil.