The scene in the ballroom was set, tension thick enough to cut through. I stood alone, vulnerable under the scrutiny of my family and their guests. My grandmother, Evelyn, was orchestrating something far more elaborate than a simple dinner, and I was caught in the middle of it.
The man with the laptop connected the projector, his fingers deftly moving over the keyboard. The screen flickered, and an image appeared, drawing everyone’s attention—an aerial shot of a house, nestled in a quiet neighborhood. My heart skipped a beat. It was the house on Hawthorne Street, a place I had never seen, yet it was supposedly mine.
Evelyn’s voice broke the silence. “This property was bought under your name, Maya,” she said, her gaze locked on my parents. “Yet, the taxes and expenses have been managed by someone else. Care to explain?”
