A few weeks later, I was digging through discarded furniture behind an abandoned mansion on the outskirts of the city, searching for anything I could repair and sell.
That’s when a sleek black luxury car rolled to a stop beside me.
The engine hummed softly.
The door opened.
A woman stepped out, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement.
“Excuse me… are you Amelia Grant?”
I froze, still clutching a splintered piece of wood.
I looked at her—perfectly tailored suit, immaculate hair, the quiet confidence of someone who had never worried about survival.
“That’s me,” I said cautiously. “If you’re here to kick me out, don’t bother. Take whatever’s here—I’m just trying to find something worth fixing.”
She studied me for a long moment before speaking.
“My name is Catherine Blake,” she said. “I’m the attorney handling the estate of Mrs. Eleanor Grant.”
My breath caught.
My grandmother.
The formidable woman my entire family respected… and feared.
The same woman who had cut me out of her life twelve years ago.
My name is Amelia Grant.
I’m thirty-two years old.
And that day—standing in the cold with dirt on my hands and the smell of garbage clinging to my clothes—was the moment everything shifted.
Just three months earlier, I had been married to Daniel Foster, a wealthy real estate developer.
I thought I had it all.
A home.
A future.
A life that made sense.
Until the day I found him in bed with his assistant.
The divorce was brutal.
Cold.
Calculated.
Merciless.
His family made sure of that.
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