But Margot didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked, her tone turning venomous. “Am I wrong? Back when your father’s affair went public, how many times did you get down on your knees to beg people to stop spreading rumors?”
Her words cut like a knife. “When your mother committed suicide, you—”
“Enough!” I roared, grabbing a glass from the table and smashing it at her feet. The shards scattered like tiny stars.
“Get. Out,” I snarled.
Margot froze, her face pale as a sheet. She had never seen me like this before. But even now, she refused to back down completely. With a stubborn huff, she bent down, picked up the scarf from the broken glass, and glared at me.
“Frank, I’ll wait for you to come begging me to come back,” she said coldly before storming out.
...
Three days later, I got a notification from the villa’s security system. When I opened the feed, my stomach dropped.
Steven was there, standing in my living room with a group of men. His smug voice rang out through the speakers.
“Alright, tear down that door. Toss out all the useless junk. And seal off the innermost bedroom with cement.”
I froze. The 'useless junk' he was talking about?
That was my stuff.
My piano. My life.