I replied: [And some are into leftovers. I’m more than happy to hand him over.]
Then I turned off my phone and went to sleep.
When I woke, the sun was already up. I ate breakfast, then went back to my house to reclaim what was mine. But when I opened the front door, I froze again.
Balloons. Streamers. Posters on the walls.
Micah and Lana’s wedding photos, everywhere.
Strangers—people I didn’t recognize—were lounging on my couch, raiding my fridge, drinking from my mugs.
My bookshelf had been ransacked. Files scattered everywhere. The antique ornaments I’d bought at auctions and the heirloom gifts from my parents—manhandled and some already shattered.
I forced myself to stay calm and turned off their loud music.
They all turned to look at me, annoyed.
“Who are you?” I asked coldly. “What are you doing in my house?”
They exchanged confused glances. “Your house? You mean Lana’s house?”
“We’re here for the wedding. Who the hell are you?” the other added.
I almost choked on my own fury. “Micah and Lana… are holding a wedding here?!”
Then someone pointed at me. “I know her. Guys, she’s that mistress!”
Before I could say anything, someone flung a cup of milk tea in my face.