Chapter 2
The document was my mother's will.
And the deed to the house. Both in my name.
I'd found them in the cedar box when I was nineteen, going through my mother's things after she died. I'd never told anyone. Not my father. Not Gwendolyn. I'd hired a lawyer quietly, confirmed everything was legal, and then — I'd waited.
Because the will was clear. The house on Maplewood Drive — the house where I grew up, the house Gwendolyn had ruled for nine years — belonged to me. My mother had inherited it from her parents, and when she died, she'd left it to me. Her only child.
My father had been granted life tenancy. He could live there as long as he wanted, as long as he didn't damage the property or allow others to do so. But the house was mine. Every nail. Every window. Every cherry wood cabinet my mother had chosen.
And the trust fund — two and a half million dollars, also left to me, accessible when I turned twenty-five. I'd turned twenty-five three months ago. I'd collected every cent. That's how I'd bought the hillside house. That's how I'd furnished it. That's how I'd walked away without a single worry about money.
But Gwendolyn — she'd been helping herself.
My lawyer, Karen, had discovered it six months ago. While reviewing the trust accounts, she'd found withdrawals. Regular. Substantial. Going to accounts in Gwendolyn's name. Over nine years, it added up to nearly four hundred thousand dollars.
Chloe's shopping sprees. Her trips. Her car. Her "social media studio" equipment. All paid for with my money. My mother's money.
I'd confronted my father once. Quietly. I'd asked him if he knew. He'd looked away. He'd mumbled something about "family finances" and "Gwendolyn handles the money."
I'd let it go. For peace. For him. Because I still hoped, somewhere, that he'd choose me.
That night, in my new kitchen, holding the will in my hands, I finally let that hope go.
I called Karen the next morning.
"I want to move forward," I said. "All of it. The house. The trust. Everything."
Karen was quiet for a moment. "Paige, you know what this means. Your father will be involved. Gwendolyn will fight. It's going to get ugly."
"I know," I said. "I'm ready."
Three days. That's how long it took for the first letter to arrive.
I was sitting on my porch, drinking coffee, looking out at the valley. The sun was warm. The air was clean. I was — happy. For the first time in years, genuinely happy.
Then my phone rang. Gwendolyn.
I didn't answer.
She called again. And again. Then she texted.
Paige, this is ridiculous. Come back. Chloe doesn't even want the room anymore. We can talk about this.
I smiled. I put my phone down. I drank my coffee.
Three days. That was all it took. Three days without me, and Gwendolyn was already begging.
Because without me, there was no one to pay the bills. No one to handle the repairs. No one to keep the peace. And Chloe — Chloe had moved into my bedroom, but she couldn't figure out how to work the balcony doors. She'd broken the lock. And neither of them could find the warranty information.
I knew because my father texted me. Just once.
The balcony door is broken. Gwendolyn says you know the company. Can you send the number?
I didn't reply.
May you like
I was relaxing in my new home. And they were — falling apart.
It was only the beginning.
