Marcus stepped toward me immediately. “Watch your mouth.”
I looked at his wrist, at my father’s watch gleaming there, then at Vivian’s heel still touching Dad’s shoulder.
“Take your foot off him.”
Vivian laughed softly. “And if I don’t?”
I walked past her, helped my father sit upright, and wiped spilled tea from his trembling hands.
Vivian hissed, “This house belongs to me now.”
I looked around the mansion my mother helped design before cancer took her away, every wall now poisoned with fake luxury and stolen warmth.
“No,” I said softly. “This house is a crime scene.”
Marcus laughed again.
That was his first mistake.
Because I had not returned home to beg.
I came back carrying court filings in my suitcase, recordings stored on my phone, and copies of my father’s original trust documents already sent to three separate attorneys.
Vivian believed she trapped a wounded old man.
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