Stacey’s POV
The table gleamed under the soft light of the chandelier, each place setting perfectly arranged with china I hadn’t seen since before my mother passed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d pulled it out—probably because it reminded me of quieter, happier times. Now, it felt like a prop in some staged performance, and Monica was the director.
She sat across from me, her smile warm but practiced, her eyes scanning the room as though she were already measuring it for drapes.
“So, Stacey,” she began, her tone saccharine as she delicately adjusted her napkin. “How are you feeling? Recovery can be so… draining.”
I forced a tight smile, gripping my fork a little harder than necessary. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Thanks for asking.”
Monica tilted her head, the corners of her lips twitching as if debating whether to push further. She glanced toward Marcus, who sat beside me. He hadn’t said much throughout the meal, but the tension radiating off him was palpable. His sharp eyes hadn’t left Monica since she walked in.
Monica’s smile faltered for a brief moment before she rallied. “Your father wanted me to tell you how proud he is,” she said sweetly, slicing into her dessert with precision. “He’s already planning to… reorganize some things for when he’s feeling better.”
I froze, my fork hovering midair. “Reorganize?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral, though a prickle of unease crawled up my spine.
Her eyes sparkled with barely concealed satisfaction. It was a look I knew all too well. Monica loved this game—dangling just enough bait to force me to react.
“Financial matters,” she said airily, as though it were the most casual thing in the world. “He’s so grateful for everything you’ve done for him. He wants to make sure you’re well taken care of.”
Beside me, Marcus stiffened. His hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened.
I forced a smile, my pulse quickening. “Of course,” I said, my voice carefully measured. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
But the truth was, I wasn’t sure. Monica’s words churned in my mind, raising questions I wasn’t ready to face.
After dinner, I walked Marcus to the foyer. Before I could say anything, he pulled me aside, his hand firm on my arm.
“You can’t trust her,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
I pulled back slightly, crossing my arms. “You’re being paranoid.”
He shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not. Stacey, listen to me. I heard her at the hospital.”
I frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second, then leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s planning to take your mom’s insurance money. She’s already working on it. She said it herself—she and your dad are scheming to ‘start over.’”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. My breath caught, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
“You’re lying,” I whispered, my throat tightening.
“Stacey,” he said, his voice steady but pleading, “I wouldn’t lie about this. I swear to you. You need to be careful.”
I shook my head, stepping back as doubt and fury warred inside me. “I need to think,” I muttered, spinning away before he could say more.
I climbed the stairs to my room, Monica’s sweet words and Marcus’s grave warnings swirling in my mind like a storm I couldn’t escape.
If Marcus was right, it wasn’t just my trust Monica had betrayed—it was my mother’s legacy. And if that was true, I wouldn’t forgive her. Not ever.