I knew the laughter was for me the second I stepped onto the gravel driveway. It came sharp, high, and pointed, like they’d been rehearsing it since dawn. My cousin Marissa elbowed her sister and whispered loud enough for half the crowd to hear, “Well, would you look at that?
Didn’t know auctions letting people who live paycheck to paycheck.”
The words landed the way they were meant to: like a slap dressed up as a joke. A few heads turned, then quickly looked away, the way people always did when cruelty was wrapped in faux family banter. The wind kicked up a little dust around my ankles, tugging at the hem of my blazer.
I adjusted the strap of my structured leather bag and kept walking.
I felt my jaw tighten, but I didn’t give them what they wanted. I just kept walking, heels steady, chin up. I’d learned years ago that silence cuts deeper than snapping back.
They thrived on scenes, on watching me flinch. Not today. Not on this driveway.
My car, a deep navy Tesla I’d parked around the corner, was still cooling down in the shade.
I’d chosen to walk the last stretch from the road instead of pulling up in front like the others. Let them keep their picture of me as the poor relation who always showed up with coupons and half-empty gas tanks. They loved their scripts.
I was here to rewrite mine, not tear theirs out of their hands.
What they didn’t know, what nobody here knew, was that I hadn’t been broke in a very, very long time.
The estate in front of us stretched wider than three football fields with a white facade and pillars like something out of a magazine. The kind Mom used to stack on the coffee table and flip through with a little sigh she pretended was casual. People were buzzing about rumors—$12 million, private gardens, a pool house bigger than normal homes.
This place was the crown jewel of the auction circuit, and every wealthy family in the county wanted a piece of it, including mine.
When the listing for Willow Crest first hit my inbox three months ago, I’d stared at the pictures for a full ten minutes without breathing. The aerial shots of the manicured hedges, the U-shaped drive, the south lawn that looked like it had hosted a hundred charity galas I’d never been invited to. My cursor hovered over the attachment icon, itching to forward it to Mom, before my brain caught up with reality and reminded me she wasn’t here anymore.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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