7

Elena

“Why are you still rotting in bed?!”

My mother-in-law’s sharp screech shattered the morning quiet as she threw my bedroom door wide open. I slowly opened my eyes, rubbing my face and sitting up against the headboard, adopting the weary, broken look of a grieving widow.

“Get up,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “We have urgent preparations to make.”

“Preparations for what, Mother?” I asked weakly.

“Is that how a dutiful wife behaves?!” she yelled, stepping close to my bed. “We need to discuss how we are laying my son’s body to rest!”

I blinked, processing her words. In my past life, no one had asked for my input on anything—they had simply handed me a pile of forged debts.

“I’ll be right down, Mother,” I murmured submissively. “Just give me a few minutes to dress.”

“Be fast. We don’t have all day.” She turned and marched out, slamming the door behind her.

The moment she left, I grabbed my phone from under the pillow and shot a rapid text to Roxy:

“Can you do me a favour?”

Roxy’s reply popped up instantly: “Anything. Name it.”

“Go straight to my late father’s family lawyer. Tell him I need him here in person this morning—I want to start the process of transferring the estate back into my name. I am reclaiming everything that belongs to me.”

“Okay,” Roxy texted back. “See you in a bit.”

I dropped the phone on the nightstand, stepped into the bathroom, and took a long, hot shower. I carefully picked out a stunning, high-collared black dress, applied a light layer of makeup to emphasize my pale, delicate features, and checked my reflection. I looked fragile, elegant, and completely harmless.

I walked downstairs into the formal living room. The entire family was seated around the glass table, though Adrian was nowhere to be seen.

“What is Vivian still doing here?” I asked softly, taking an armchair across from them.

“She is family,” Lucas answered smoothly, offering me a comforting smile.

“Family?” I raised an eyebrow, adjusting my sleeves. “Since when did Mother’s distant cousin become so deeply involved in our private household matters?”

“That is enough!” my mother-in-law cut in sharply. “I invited her to stay!”

Vivian rolled her eyes, leaning back on the sofa with a smug smile that said she considered herself the true mistress of the house.

I lowered my gaze, letting a soft, fake tear slip down my cheek. “I... I’m sorry,” I whispered, sounding utterly broken. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just... I’ve lost the love of my life, and my head is spinning.”

Vivian smirked, clearly satisfied with my pathetic display. "Enough with the theatrics. We didn't come here to watch you cry."

I looked around the room, letting my voice quiver with heartbreaking sorrow. “Before we discuss Adrian’s burial,” I spoke up, wiping my eyes with a silk handkerchief, “there is something very important I need to confess to all of you.”

My mother-in-law frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Right on cue, the doorbell chimed through the house.

“That would be for me,” I said softly, rising from the armchair. “I hope you don’t mind—I asked someone to join us this morning.”

I opened the door myself. Roxy stood on the front step, and beside her, a silver-haired man in a sharp gray suit, a leather folder tucked under his arm.

“Mr. Whitfield,” I said, stepping aside to let them in. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hart,” he said gently. “Given the circumstances, I thought it best to explain things in person.”

I led them into the living room. My mother-in-law’s face had already begun to shift from confusion to alarm.

“Who is this man?” she demanded.

“My late father’s attorney,” I said, taking my seat again. “He’s handled our family’s estate matters for over thirty years.”

Mr. Whitfield gave a polite nod to the room before opening his folder. “I understand this is a difficult morning for the family, and I apologize for the intrusion. But given the... sensitive timing, I felt it important that everyone hear this directly from me, rather than secondhand.”

“Hear what?” my father-in-law snapped.

“This estate,” Mr. Whitfield said calmly, “was placed in a trust by Mrs. Hart’s late father at the time of the original purchase. Mr. Blackwood’s name was added to the deed as co-owner, but the trust itself contains a standard reversion clause—one I confirmed again this morning, in light of yesterday’s tragedy.” He glanced toward me with something like quiet sympathy. “In the event of the co-owner’s death, full ownership of the estate, along with any associated accounts, reverts automatically to the original beneficiary. Mrs. Hart, in this case.”

The room went utterly still.

“That’s—that can’t be right,” my father-in-law stammered. “The deed lists Adrian as sole owner!”

“The deed reflects title,” Mr. Whitfield said, unbothered. “The trust governs beneficial ownership. I assure you, the paperwork is quite clear, and quite binding.” He closed the folder. “As of yesterday afternoon, this house, and everything in it, belongs to Mrs. Hart.”

“WHAT?!”

Every single one of them leapt to their feet in absolute horror, their faces draining of color as a stranger in a gray suit calmly dismantled their grand scheme to pieces.

They had killed Adrian on paper to steal from me in peace. They had no idea they’d just handed me back everything they’d spent years taking.