He threw me out on the street after inheriting 75 million, believing I was a burden. But when the lawyer read the final clause, his triumphant smile turned into a face of panic.

I tried to protest. I tried to appeal to his heart, to those ten years of memories. But he had already called security. They escorted me out of my own house, in the rain, while he watched from the second-floor landing, finishing his champagne.

That night I slept in my car in the parking lot of a 24-hour supermarket. I felt broken, humiliated, and above all, utterly useless. Had I wasted a decade of my life with a monster? The man I loved didn’t exist. There was only a predator waiting for his prey.

Three weeks passed. Three weeks in which I looked for a cheap apartment, tried to rebuild my life, and received the divorce papers. He wanted to get it over with quickly. He wanted to erase me so he could enjoy his millions without any “burdens.”

But then, the summons arrived.

Arthur’s lawyer, Mr. Sterling, a serious and meticulous man who never smiled, called for the “Official Reading of the Will.” Curtis called me, furious.

“I don’t know why you have to go,” he snapped over the phone. “Dad probably left you some old jewelry or a dusty photo album. But go, sign whatever you have to sign, and disappear. I don’t want you to ruin my moment.”