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The rain didn’t pour down in a dramatic storm. Instead, it came in a slow, relentless drizzle—the kind that seeps through layers of fabric and settles deep into your bones.
It clung to my black mourning dress, soaking it inch by inch, as if the sky itself refused to let me stay dry. Above the vast, perfectly trimmed estate of the Whitmore family, the clouds hung low and heavy, a dull, bruised gray that mirrored the hollow ache inside my chest.
It had only been a day—just twenty-four hours—since I stood beside the polished mahogany coffin and watched them lower my husband, Adrian, into the cold ground.
“Get your trash off my lawn, Natalie!”
The sharp, venomous voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
I turned slowly, my arms wrapped around myself as if I could hold what little warmth I had left. My mother-in-law, Victoria Whitmore, stood at the top of the grand stone steps, her expression twisted with open contempt. In her hands, she dragged my worn canvas suitcase—the same one I had brought with me when I first stepped into this mansion three years ago.
With a harsh shove, she sent it tumbling down the steps.
The zipper snapped under the force. Clothes spilled out—my simple dresses, my nursing uniforms, the small pieces of my life—scattering across the soaked lawn. Mud swallowed them instantly, staining everything I owned.
“You got your fairytale wedding, didn’t you?” Victoria sneered as she descended toward me, her heels clicking with cold precision. “Three years of pretending to belong here. But that’s over now. Adrian is gone, and so are your privileges. You get nothing. Now get out.”
Behind her, under the shelter of the porch, stood Lily—Adrian’s younger sister. She held up her phone, recording everything, a cruel smile dancing on her lips.
“Say goodbye to your luxury life,” she mocked. “People are going to love this. The gold-digger finally getting kicked out.”
Something inside me should have shattered again.