“We needed it more than you,” Kyle sneered, his voice dripping with condescension as he lounged across the opulent living room, a picture of smug satisfaction. His words were a dagger, twisting in the wound of my financial devastation.
I’m Rebecca Mitchell, 34, and the owner of Mitchell Designs, a boutique I painstakingly built from scratch. That $120,000 he so casually dismissed? It wasn’t just money; it was the culmination of my relentless effort, the bedrock of my dreams, my future, my everything. And he, my own brother-in-law, had stolen it. He didn’t even flinch, just that sickening smirk playing on his lips. But he’d made a critical miscalculation: I might be family, but I was no pushover. I met his gaze, my own eyes burning with a resolve he clearly underestimated.
“Then you won’t mind what’s coming next,” I stated, my voice as cold and sharp as fractured glass. Two agonizing hours later, the resounding crash of a forced entry echoed through the supposed sanctuary of the lakehouse, as police officers kicked down the front door.
My upbringing in Portland instilled a strong sense of responsibility. My parents, hardworking and honest, ran a modest hardware store that barely covered our needs. While my younger sister, Allison, navigated her teenage years chasing ephemeral popularity and social gatherings, I was meticulously saving every dollar earned from my summer jobs. After graduating college, I plunged into the demanding world of corporate retail, enduring three arduous years of relentless grinding before finally gathering the courage to launch Mitchell Designs.
