Nearly half a billion dollars, and I rode the bus.
Grief didn’t care.
Three weeks later, Lydia called.
Sweet voice. Poison underneath.
“You took Mom’s jewelry when you left.”
“I took only what Oliver gave me.”
“Don’t make this difficult.”
“It already is.”
A letter followed, implying theft. I returned the necklace anyway. Receipts intact.
Lydia posted a photo wearing it days later. Caption: Family things belong with family.
The comments were cruel.
Margaret called my workplace pretending concern, suggesting I was unstable. My supervisor told me to ignore it.
I cried in the supply closet, not from fear, but from realizing how badly she wanted me erased.
Edward sent a letter telling me to stop using the Harrington name.
I framed it.
Lydia turned my pain into content. Photos. Captions. Mockery.
I saved everything.
Six months passed.
Then I ran into Margaret at a grocery store. She announced loudly that I’d married for money and ended up where I belonged.
I paid. Left. Whispered, “Noted.”
Later, I met Daniel for coffee.
He apologized. Slid two hundred dollars across the table.
I took it—not because I needed it, but because he needed to feel it.
Then the Harrington empire cracked.