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And then I walked out—alone. Three days later, my phone rang. It was Melissa.
She was crying so hard I barely recognized her voice. “Come fast,” she choked out. Confused but uneasy, I drove back.
The moment I opened the door, my blood ran cold. Melissa stood in the foyer, mascara streaking down her face, her lawyer beside her holding a thick folder. She shoved a document toward me.
“Did you know about this?!” she screamed, her voice shaking with fury—and fear. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered. The lawyer cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses.
My heart thudded in my chest. The clause stated that while Melissa would inherit the house, she was required to allow me to live there peacefully until my dying day. If she ever forced me out or demanded that I leave—exactly what she had done—she would forfeit the property entirely.
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