My stepmother forced me out of the house before the soil on my father’s grave had even settled.

She did it in front of everyone—smiling as if grief had just crowned her the new owner of everything.

Rain poured down as I stood on the porch in my black dress, my father’s old watch cold against my wrist. Behind me, guests whispered under umbrellas. In front of me, Vanessa Cross held the door open, her expression calm and controlled.

“This house was never yours, Emma.”

Her son, Blake, leaned casually against the wall, already wearing my father’s coat. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he said. “Things change.”