The morning dew still clung to the white roses when I heard the deliberate crunch of expensive heels on the garden path. I didn’t need to look up from my pruning to know who it was. Only one person would dare wear red-bottomed designer shoes to stomp through my father’s prized garden at eight in the morning.
“Still playing in the dirt, I see,” Haley said, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. I kept trimming the roses my father had planted for my wedding day—the wedding that had ended in divorce papers and my ex-husband running off with the woman now casting her shadow across the flower bed. These white roses were supposed to represent new beginnings.
Instead, they’d witnessed the end of my fifteen-year marriage. “Hello, Haley.”
She moved closer, positioning herself so I’d have to look up at her to speak. Classic power play.
“You know why I’m here. The reading of the will is tomorrow, and Holden and I think it’s best if we discuss things civilly before it becomes awkward.”
I finally turned, wiping my soil-covered hands on my gardening apron. At thirty-eight, I’d learned that civility was often just cruelty with better manners.
“There’s nothing to discuss. This is my father’s house.”
“His estate,” Haley corrected, her perfectly painted red lips curling into a smirk. “And since Holden was like a son to Miles for fifteen years, we believe we’re entitled to our fair share.”
The pruning shears in my hand suddenly felt heavier.
“The same Holden who cheated on his wife with his secretary?” I asked quietly. “That Holden?”
“Ancient history.” Haley waved her manicured hand dismissively, the morning sun catching on her three-carat engagement ring—the one that had appeared on her finger six months after my divorce was finalized. “Miles forgave him.
They still played golf every Sunday until…” She paused, savoring the moment. “Well, you know.”
My father’s death three weeks ago was still raw, a wound that hadn’t even begun to scab over. He’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer eight months earlier, and we’d had so little time to say everything that needed saying.
And here was this woman—this vulture—circling what she thought was easy prey. “My father wouldn’t have left Holden anything,” I said firmly, rising to my full height. I had four inches on her, even without her designer heels.
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