The morning dew still clung to the roses when I heard the crunch of expensive heels on my garden path. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one person would dare to wear Louboutins to stomp through my father’s prized garden.
“Madeline?” Her voice dripped with fake sweetness.
“Still playing in the dirt, I see.”
I continued pruning my father’s white roses—the ones he’d planted for my wedding day. The wedding that had ended in divorce papers and my ex-husband running off with the woman now standing behind me.
“Hello, Haley.”
“You know why I’m here.” She moved closer, her shadow falling across the flower bed. “The reading of the will is tomorrow, and Holden and I think it’s best if we discuss things… civilly.”
I finally turned around, wiping my soil-covered hands on my gardening apron.
“There’s nothing to discuss.
This is my father’s house.”
“His estate, was,” Haley corrected, her perfectly painted red lips curling into a smirk. “And since Holden was like a son to Miles for fifteen years, we believe we’re entitled to our fair share.”
The pruning shears in my hand suddenly felt heavier. “The same Holden who cheated on his daughter with his secretary?
That Holden?”
“Ancient history,” Haley waved her manicured hand dismissively.
“Miles forgave him. They still played golf every Sunday until…” She paused for dramatic effect.
“Well, you know.”
My father’s death was still raw, a wound that hadn’t even begun to scab over. He’d been gone just two weeks, and here was this woman, this vulture, circling what she thought was easy prey.
“My father wouldn’t have left Holden anything,” I said firmly, standing up to my full height.
“He was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.”
Haley’s fake smile faltered. “We’ll see about that. Your brother, Isaiah, seems to think differently.”
The mention of my brother sent a chill down my spine.
We hadn’t spoken since Dad’s funeral, where he’d spent more time consoling Holden than his own sister.
“You’ve spoken to Isaiah?”
“Oh, honey,” Haley stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve done more than speak.
He’s been very… helpful.”
I gripped the pruning shears tighter, remembering Dad’s words from years ago: The roses need a firm hand, Maddie, but never a cruel one. Even the sharpest thorns serve a purpose.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
