They Called Me a Squatter in My Own Home
Three days after my father’s death, I was home, planning his funeral. A woman and a group of bodyguards stormed in.
She shoved me, hard. "Who the hell do you think you are?" she screamed. "Get out of my house! Now!"
I froze, stunned. A new housekeeper? Maybe my brother Liam hired her.
I kept my voice calm. "This house is mine. Liam knows that. If you have a problem, take it up with him."
Her face twisted into a mask of rage. Then she slapped me.
"Yours?" She scoffed, looking me up and down with disgust. "This is my boyfriend Liam's house. And you look like you don't belong here. I don't know if you're the new maid or the cook, but I don't care. Get the hell out. Now."
My blood ran cold. I pulled out my phone and texted my assistant.
[Tell Liam to get home and handle his girlfriend. Now. Or he won't see a dime of the family money.]
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