‎My mother called me a “selfish spinster” for refusing to gift my house to my sister for her wedding. She even grabbed my keys from my purse, declaring my fully paid-off condo now belonged to the family. My sister laughed and spilled wine on my blouse. “A lonely loser like you doesn’t deserve luxury,” she sneered. The next morning, they showed up to claim it—confident they’d won… without knowing who I really was

That evening, I did something I had avoided for years.

I called Damon.

Not because I wanted gossip.

Because he had once almost married my sister, and if my mother was spiraling enough to track down private addresses, I needed to know how far her current campaign had gone.

He answered cautiously.

“Maya?”

“Hi. I’ll be brief. Has Tessa or my mother been talking about me recently?”

He exhaled like a man relieved to hear reality.

“Oh, thank God. I thought I was going crazy.”

“Explain.”

He did.

After their wedding imploded—because Tessa had been draining a joint account and lying about a lot more than flowers—she told everyone I had sabotaged her happiness out of jealousy. That I had manipulated Damon, poisoned him against her, even seduced one of his friends for revenge. The usual dramatic nonsense, except my mother had taken it and run wild with it. They had been calling relatives, church friends, even distant family overseas, telling them I was mentally unstable and stealing from “the family estate.”

I almost admired the creativity.

Almost.

Damon’s voice hardened. “For what it’s worth, I know it’s garbage. I ended things because I found out who Tessa actually was. None of this is on you.”