I finally bought our dream home, and on day one my husband said: “my mom, my sister, and the kids are moving in, you don’t get a say!” he drove off to get them. And that evening, they froze at what they saw inside…

And in my chest, the last bit of love finally died.

A month later, Kelly spread a housing catalog across the dinner table like she was making a business proposal.

“What’s this?” Olivia asked, suddenly interested.

Kelly grinned. “Julie’s been looking at houses.”

I froze.

My blood went hot.

“Did you go through my bag?” I demanded.

Kelly shrugged. “You left it out.”

The nerve.

But I didn’t show anger.

Not then.

Because something inside me was already calculating.

Olivia leaned forward, eyes shining.

“A house?” she asked. “With a garden?”

Larry perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag.

“If Julie wants a house,” he said loudly, “then fine. We’ll do it.”

Olivia laughed warmly—fake warmth, sugary and poisonous.

“Oh, Larry, you’ll finally be head of your own household,” she cooed.

I swallowed, forcing my voice steady.

“Whose name will the house be under?” I asked.

Larry frowned. “Mine. I’m the head of the household.”

That should’ve been my final warning.

But I nodded.

Because I was already five moves ahead.

I found a house in the countryside—pretty on the outside, “cheap for the size,” with a garden and charming little windows.

It had one problem.

The land was unstable.

The locals knew it.