Chapter 34: Confrontation

Purdey pulled up outside Ian’s house and didn’t get out straight away.

She had only been here once before. That time, the place had been barely habitable — peeling weatherboards, sagging porch, weeds clawing through cracked concrete. Ian had been proud of it then, standing amid the rot with that stubborn glint in his eye, talking about “potential” like it was something you could will into existence.

She’d humoured him. She’d also been quietly relieved when she drove away.

Now, the house stood finished. Polished. Intentional. A transformation so complete it almost felt theatrical, like one of those home renovation shows where before-and-after shots were separated by dramatic music and a commercial break. The structure looked confident, resolved in a way she hadn’t expected.

And in a way that unsettled her.

This wasn’t a place she’d left behind. This was a place she’d never belonged to.

Children’s things dotted the front yard — a scooter tipped against the fence, chalk ghosts smudged across the concrete, a plastic bucket half-filled with gravel. The details were casual, unposed. Lived-in. Evidence of routine.

Another car sat in the driveway beside Ian’s BYD ute. A small blue Mazda. She recognised it before she consciously placed it, irritation flickering at the back of her mind.

Purdey sat with her hands locked around the steering wheel, watching the living room curtains. Waiting for movement. For confirmation.

Three minutes passed.

Her pulse thudded low and steady, not panicked, but tight. Controlled. The way she’d learned to hold herself when she didn’t want anything to show.

Eventually, she exhaled and opened the door.

The front doors swung open before she reached them.

Ian stood there in gym clothes, hair still damp, his expression neutral in that way she remembered well — the look he wore when he’d already decided how the conversation was going to go.

“The girls are at school,” he said. “You could’ve called.”

“I needed to talk to you.”

He stepped aside without comment.

The house smelled clean. Not aggressively so — just cared for. Lemon polish, fresh air, something floral she didn’t recognise. The interior bore almost no resemblance to the wreck she’d walked through months earlier. Everything had been stripped back and rebuilt with patience. Wide windows. Pale timber. A restrained, modern aesthetic that surprised her despite herself.

Annoyingly, it was well done. This isn’t my house.

This was not the man who used to leave half-finished projects lying around for weeks. This was not the man she’d known how to manage.

She moved into the hallway, sunlight spilling in through glass she hadn’t seen here before. New furniture replaced the old entirely — nothing carried over, nothing salvaged. Even the couch was different. Grey fabric. Structured. No history embedded in it.

She turned to face him.

“I saw your message,” she said. “The video.”

“Yeah.”

“Did the girls see?”

“No.” He met her eyes without hesitation. “They didn’t.”

Relief surged first. Then anger, hot and immediate.

“Then why are we doing this?” she asked. “Why are you filming me?”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t sigh.

“Because it wasn’t private, Purdey.”

“That fence was broken,” she shot back.

“And you knew it was.”

The words landed harder than she expected.

Not accusatory. Not smug.

Just factual.

For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt something shift — a subtle rebalancing of the room. This wasn’t a confrontation about ownership or jealousy or old wounds.

This was about exposure.

And suddenly, standing in a house she didn’t recognise, that had never been hers, she felt it — the quiet, disorienting sense of being on unfamiliar ground.

The kitchen felt colder than the hallway. The polished granite countertops reflected the overhead lighting in sharp, unforgiving gleams. Stainless steel appliances stood like sentinels against the pale walls, their surfaces unblemished by fingerprints or water spots.

Not sterile, exactly, but deliberate. Clear benches stretched beneath minimalist cabinets. No clutter disturbed the perfect angles. No stray mail, no abandoned coffee mugs, no magnets cluttering the refrigerator door. Nothing left behind that hadn’t been put there on purpose. The kind of order that came from routines being followed, not just staged for appearances – the methodical placement of the knife block, the geometric arrangement of hand towels, the symmetrical spacing of barstools against the island.

Ian crossed to the sink – a deep, undermounted basin with a sleek faucet that arched like a question mark – and filled a glass of water from the filtered tap. He didn’t offer her one. Not out of cruelty. Just because this wasn’t hospitality.

Purdey stayed near the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest.

“So,” she said. “You filming me now?”

He set the glass down carefully. “I recorded what was visible from the street.”

“You went out of your way to catch me.”

“No,” he said evenly. “I drove past to drop the girls where I said I would. I saw something I shouldn’t have.”

Her jaw tightened. “You could’ve looked away.”

“I did,” he replied. “After I made sure they didn’t see.”

That distinction mattered to him. She heard it.

“You don’t get to monitor my life anymore,” she snapped.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m monitoring fallout.”

She laughed, short and sharp. “You? Talking about fallout?”

“Yes.”

The way he said it—quiet, settled—irritated her more than anger would have.

“You slept with half the suburb,” she shot back. “You don’t get to lecture me about judgment.”

“I’m not lecturing,” he said. “I’m drawing a line.”

“You draw lines now?” She gestured around the kitchen. “In your rebuilt little sanctuary?”

“This isn’t about the house,” he said.

“It’s always about the house,” she snapped. “You sold the family home, you built this, you wiped us out like a design flaw.”

“I gave you half,” he said calmly. “You didn’t lose financially.”

The words were factual. That was what made them hurt.

She stepped closer. “I lost time. I lost trust. I lost the illusion that you were capable of changing.”

“I changed,” he said quietly. “After you left.”

“And now you’re cured?”

“No,” he said. “Now I’m accountable.”

She scoffed. “Accountable to who?”

“Our kids.”

That finally cracked something.

He took a breath, as if choosing his words carefully. “Do you know why this matters more than you think?”

She didn’t answer.

“Two weeks ago,” he continued, “Olivia came home from school early.”

Purdey’s posture stiffened.

“She didn’t tell me at first. Went straight to her room. Locked the door.”

Her throat tightened. “What happened?”

Ian leaned back against the counter, jaw tight. “A group of girls cornered her after lunch. Someone had shown them something online. A screenshot. Not explicit. Just ... enough.”