She stared at me, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small box. She shoved it toward me with trembling hands. “Here. Take it. It’s cursed anyway.”
I took it, opened it. The ring was inside. But something felt off. Too light. Too shiny. I held it to the light and knew immediately.
This wasn’t my ring.
She had made a copy.
“Where’s the original?” I asked.
She shrugged, and her smirk widened. “I guess you’ll have to find out.” Then she walked past me and out the door.
I stood there staring at the fake in my palm.
The game had changed. Ellie wasn’t just angry. She was strategic. Vindictive. Dangerous.
The next morning, a letter arrived with no return address. One sentence in thick black ink inside: “Next time, it won’t just be a ring.”
I stared at it for a long time. For one second, just one, I almost let the fear crawl back in. But then I remembered who I was.
I didn’t survive widowhood and two jobs and raising a son alone to be bullied by a girl with a tantrum and a fake smile.
I met with my lawyer the next morning.
“I want to revise the trust,” I said.