Three months ago, she “temporarily” lost her apartment after separating from her husband.
Alexander and Emily opened their doors to her.
I thought it would last a few weeks.
I was wrong.
“She says this is her house,” Alexander confessed over the phone.
“She controls everything. Criticizes everything. Emily cries almost every day.”
“And with you…” he hesitated.
“She’s got a thing against you.”
“Against me?” I raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see me.
“She tells everyone you think you’re better than us because you ‘bought the house like it was nothing.’ Tomorrow Emily’s whole family is coming. I want you there.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Not because I needed to defend myself.
But because I had paid for that house—dollar by dollar—giving up vacations, luxuries, and weekends.
No one was going to rewrite that story.
Not while I was still breathing.
The next day, when I pulled up to the house, there were already several cars outside.
Balloons. Soft music.
The smell of seafood paella drifting out of the kitchen window.
It was Emily’s birthday.
And Patricia had insisted on organizing “something small.”
Small… I thought, looking at the packed driveway.
Right.
I walked in holding a bottle of expensive wine.