I just made sure it was airtight. She tried to play it off. Said she didn’t care.
But I watched her over the next months. How she wilted when her credit cards were declined because the joint accounts were in the trust. How the brokers stopped calling when they realized she had nothing to sell.
The best part? I let her stay in the house. Let her feel safe. And then, when she tried to rent out the guest wing for cash without my consent, I exercised the clause.
I sold the house, legally, without her approval. She got her $100,000 a year, exactly as the will stated. Enough to survive, not enough to live the life she thought she’d stolen.
The last time I saw her, she was standing outside the park lane gates, suitcase at her feet. She didn’t look at me when I walked past. I stopped, just for a second.
Guess you were wrong, kiddo, I said. Her jaw clenched. I kept walking.
Revenge isn’t about rage. It’s about patience. About knowing when to speak and when to wait in silence until the ground beneath your enemy gives way.
Dad used to say, a sharp mind cuts deeper than a sharp blade. He was right.
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