“They didn’t treat her like anything,” I replied calmly, with a firmness in my voice that even surprised me. “They simply reminded her of something neither of them ever wanted to acknowledge: that if something doesn’t belong to you, you have no right to use it.”
He exhaled sharply, already irritated by my tone.
“Don’t be stingy, Marissa.”
“Petty,” she said, as if that word could erase five years of calculated humiliation carefully disguised as family tradition and cultural expectation.
For years, her mother, Eleanor Whitford, had lived a life she could never have sustained on her own income, going from luxury shops to exclusive salons and high-end restaurants as if wealth were a birthright rather than something discreetly funded by me behind the scenes.
Imported skincare products filled her vanity, designer shoes occupied her closets, and her handbags were displayed like trophies during dinners where, with polite smiles, I disarmed her with hurtful comments that Anthony always dismissed as harmless.
