She denied her cruelty by acting out of love. She attacked my credibility by labeling me insane. And she reversed the roles: I was the danger, and she was the victim. “I do own this house,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart hammered against my ribs.
“See?” Constance whispered to Dr. Aris, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Delusions of grandeur. She’s a freelance IT worker, doctor. She makes forty thousand a year. How could she own a fifteen-million-dollar estate? She broke in. She’s squatting here.”
The room
