In her mind, the house was already hers.
Marcus, oblivious as always, was still at his office, unaware his mother had just lit a fuse that would explode everything.
The call came at 8:00 p.m. on October 12th, my first night in paradise.
I was on the deck watching moonlight dance on the waves when my phone shattered the peace.
“Josephine.”
Eleanor’s voice had that particular tone, sweet poison mixed with authority.
“I wanted to let you know we’re moving in tomorrow. Marcus said it’s fine.”
I felt my body go cold.
“Excuse me?”
“The Malibu house. Don’t play dumb. I know Marcus bought it, and he’s already agreed I can have the master suite. I’m bringing my decorator at 9:00 a.m.”
In the background, I heard Marcus’s voice, weak and distant.
“Mom, I didn’t—”
“Quiet, Marcus. I’m handling this.”
Eleanor’s breathing got sharper.
“If you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else. This is a Drexler property now. Act accordingly.”
My hands shook, but 15 years of boardroom battles had taught me to keep my voice steady.
“I see.”
“Good. Make sure the place is presentable. I’ve invited the charity committee for lunch tomorrow to see my new house. Don’t embarrass the family.”
She hung up before I could respond.
I stood there, phone in hand, staring at the ocean.
The rage I’d suppressed for 15 years threatened to explode. But then something else took over.
Cold, calculated clarity.
