A week before they were going to sell the apartment, Emma’s father-in-law pulled her aside when her husband wasn’t around. He told her to take a hammer and break the tile behind the bathroom toilet. Emma was confused—why damage the newly renovated place? But he insisted, saying her husband was lying to her and the proof was there. Hesitantly, she broke a piece of tile. What she found hidden in the wall made her drop to the floor in shock.
But before that moment, life still felt normal. It was Wednesday, and her husband David had been away for two days on a business trip to a nearby state, saying he needed to secure an important deal for his struggling company. Emma stayed alone in their spotless three-bedroom apartment, getting it ready for the sale in just one week.
They had finished renovating the apartment just six months ago, and Emma was proud of it. She had chosen everything herself—the color of the floors, the wallpaper texture, the hallway lights. At first, David dismissed it as “women’s stuff,” but after seeing the finished result, he acted like he had
designed it and told guests it was all his idea. Emma didn’t argue; what mattered was that they both liked it.
She loved the apartment, every part of it. Selling it was sad, but they had decided to buy a house outside the city for a new chapter in life. That day, Emma was doing her usual chores—dusting furniture, watering flowers. The place was quiet except for the fridge and the sound of cars outside.
That morning, David had called briefly, saying everything was fine, he was busy, and he had no time to talk. She was used to him always being in a rush, focused on future plans.
Around lunchtime, the doorbell rang. Emma was surprised—she wasn’t expecting visitors. Standing there was her father-in-law, George. It was odd; he was a quiet man who kept to himself after his wife died and rarely left his apartment across the city. He never visited without calling first.
He looked the same as always—gray hair, deep wrinkles, wearing an old but neat jacket—but his eyes seemed different, filled with a strange, heavy determination.
“Hello, Emma” he said from the doorway, his voice hoarse.
“George hi. Come in. Did something happen? Is David okay?” Her heart raced, afraid it might be bad news about her husband.
“David’s fine,” he replied with a bitter half-smile that only made her more uneasy. He stepped inside, closed the door, and glanced around the bright, tidy apartment, his eyes stopping briefly on the new front door they had installed a month ago.
“I came alone,” he said, as if answering a question she hadn’t asked.
“David’s in the city?”
“No, he’s on a business trip. He’ll be back Friday night.”
George nodded, as if that’s exactly what he expected. Without a word, he walked into the kitchen. Emma followed, her nervousness growing. Instead of sitting at the table like usual, he stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Then, he took out his right hand. He was holding a hammer—an ordinary, worn carpenter’s hammer with a wooden handle. Emma froze, staring at it.
“I need you to do something,” he said quietly but firmly.
“While he’s gone.”
“What… what do you mean?” she whispered.
“Come on,” he said, leading her to the bathroom—Emma’s favorite part of the apartment.
The beige tiles were perfectly straight, the new acrylic bathtub gleamed, and the chrome faucets sparkled. David had insisted on expensive Italian tiles, and they had argued with the contractor for three days to make sure everything was flawless.
George stopped in front of the toilet and pointed at the wall behind it with the hammer.
“This tile,” he said, “needs to be broken.”
Emily stared at him, then at the perfect, shiny tiles. She thought she must have heard wrong.
“What? Why? George, are you crazy? We just finished the renovation. David will kill me—he searched the whole city for these tiles.”
“I’m perfectly sane, Emma. But you’re living in a lie. Your husband is deceiving you.”
“The truth is there?” she asked, pointing at the wall.
He tapped the wall again with the hammer, his face stern and unshakable.
Emily stepped back, thinking, Maybe he’s lost his mind… old age, grief after losing his wife.
“I’m not doing this,” she said firmly. “It’s madness. You’ll ruin our home. Let me make you some tea—you’ll calm down.”
“No time for tea,” he interrupted.
“Property?” he added. “Soon you won’t have any property at all. Not this place, not the other one.”
Then, he handed her the hammer.
“Do it. Or I will. But it’s better if you do it,” he said.
Emma looked into his tired, worn eyes and saw so much pain and certainty that her resistance began to fade. Something serious—something awful—was going on, and she didn’t know what it was.
She had known George for years, and he wasn’t the type to make cruel or silly jokes. But what could possibly be hidden there? Her voice shook.
“There’s just a wall there. A load-bearing wall.”
“There’s a hiding place,” he said simply. “David thinks I don’t know. But I saw him. I came by by chance while he was working there. I thought he was putting in tiles, but he was taking bricks out. When he noticed me, he got nervous and said he was checking the wiring. But I saw him hide something.”
His words sounded frighteningly convincing. Emmà took the hammer—it felt heavy and cold in her hands. But she couldn’t make herself move. The thought of David’s anger froze her. She imagined his furious face. He had been so proud of this bathroom, calling it “our little Versailles.”
Breaking the tile felt like destroying something precious to him.
“I can’t,” she whispered, almost in tears.
“You can,” her father-in-law said firmly. “Think about yourself, Emma. For once.”
Not about him. And that simple request hit her—because she always thought about him.
About his comfort, his career, his mood. She smoothed the rough edges in their relationship, forgave small offenses, supported all his endeavors. And about herself? She closed her eyes and, swinging, struck the tile.
The sound was deafening. Shards flew everywhere. When she opened her eyes, an ugly hole with ragged edges gaped on the perfect surface.
Her heart pounded in her throat. That’s it, no turning back. She struck again, and again.
The tile crumbled, exposing the layer of cement. George watched silently, standing by the door. Emma worked with the hammer and the edge of a chisel he handed her, chipping off piece by piece.
Her fingers ached, her breathing ragged. And there, under the layer of mortar. She saw it.
A brick. It differed from the others; there was no hardened cement around the edges. It had been inserted into the niche later.
She pried it with the chisel. The brick gave way and fell into her hands. Behind it was black emptiness.
Emma dropped to her knees, peered inside. Deep in the wall lay a black zippered waterproof bag. Like the ones used to store documents on hikes.
She reached into the cold, dusty niche and pulled it out. The bag was heavy. «Go to the room,» said George.
<<<<Not here.>>> She obediently stood and, clutching the bag to her chest, went to the living room. Sat on the couch.
Her hands trembled so badly that she couldn’t open the zipper right away. Her father-in-law sat silently in the armchair across from her, his face dark and serious. Finally, the zipper came undone.
The first thing she saw was cash—a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. There was a lot of it. She didn’t know exactly how much, but it looked like hundreds of thousands—maybe half a million or more.
Her first thought was that it was just savings for the future, and David hadn’t told her so she wouldn’t worry. But that naive idea disappeared the moment she saw what was under the money.
There were papers. She unfolded one. It was a legal document—a power of attorney—with an official form, a stamp, and a notary’s signature. She read the words:
“I, Emma Carter, authorize David Thompson to sell my share of the apartment and receive all the money from the sale.”
At the bottom was her signature—perfectly matching hers, but she had never signed it. It was a fake. This document would let David sell their apartment, take all the money, and leave her with nothing.
Her breath caught, and her head started spinning. But that wasn’t the worst part…
Beneath the power of attorney were two printed airline tickets from Montego Air—a one-way flight to Tahiti, scheduled for Saturday, the day after the apartment sale.
The names on the tickets were David Thompson and Sophia Ca—Sophia Carter. Emily froze at the “Ca.” She tried to think of anyone she knew with that name—Catherine? Cassie? Christina? Maybe it was a typo? Or just another Carter by coincidence? She clung to these thoughts, because the real possibility forming in her mind was far worse.
She wanted to shove everything back into the bag and pretend she hadn’t seen it—but then her fingers touched something small and hard at the bottom.
She pulled it out. It was a small silver oval locket on a thin chain, engraved with a lilac branch—her grandmother’s locket. Before dying, her grandmother had given it to Emma, saying it would bring her happiness. Emily had worn it for years.
Seven years ago, after a huge fight, her younger sister Sophia had thrown a tantrum over the locket, saying Emma always got the best things. Their mother sided with Sophia, telling Emma to be the bigger person and give it to her. Emma gave in, for the sake of family peace, and their mother had praised her for her generosity. But Emma had never forgotten the hurt.
Now that same locket lay in front of her—next to a plane ticket for Sophia Carter. Her younger sister.
Everything around her seemed to vanish—no sound, no color—just three things in her vision: the fake power of attorney, the ticket in her sister’s name, and the locket she had once given away.
This wasn’t just betrayal—it was an insult. A cruel mockery of her kindness.
A cold numbness spread from her fingers to her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her legs gave way, and she slid to the floor, hugging her knees and staring at the papers and the locket on the carpet.
The silence was so heavy it felt like even the air had stopped.
George stood from the armchair with a grunt, his joints cracking as he came to stand over her. She didn’t look up, but she could feel his sorrowful gaze. He didn’t need to say “I told you so.”
“Get up, Emma,” he finally said, his voice tired. “Sitting on the floor won’t help.”
She slowly looked at him. Her eyes were dry—only cold emptiness remained, as if her solid, familiar world had just been revealed as nothing but a flimsy set hiding darkness and lies.
“Him and Sophia,” she whispered, struggling to even say her sister’s name.
George sighed. “I didn’t know about your sister.”
George said he only knew David was hiding something—that he’d changed into someone unrecognizable, the way George himself once had.
He offered Emma his hand. She took it, feeling his rough, dry skin, and he helped her stand on shaky legs. She sat on the couch, staring at the proof of betrayal. The sunlight caught the silver medallion—a reminder of not just her husband’s betrayal, but her sister’s. Two of the people closest to her had joined together to ruin her.
Her first instinct was to call—David, to scream at him; Sophia, to demand an explanation; her mother, to cry for help. But she knew how that would end. David would act like she was crazy, twist the story, and make her the villain. Sophia would cry, as she always did, and her mother would defend her, saying Emma was just stressed and imagining things.
No—confronting them now would be a trap. They had the forged power of attorney; she had nothing but her word.
She told George they needed to put everything away, surprised at how calm she sounded. He agreed—her only advantage was that they didn’t know she knew. Emma gathered the money, the papers, the tickets, and the medallion, zipped them back into the bag, and gave it to Michael to hide at his place.
The only visible sign left was the broken bathroom tile. Michael told her to make up a simple excuse if David asked—say something fell.
But the real question now was: what stage was their plan at? The sale was supposed to be a week away—seven days she could use to prepare. She decided to act normal, pretending to be a loving, clueless wife, while secretly gathering information.
She called their realtor, Steve, to “check” on next week’s schedule. But Steve sounded confused. David had been there yesterday with the forged power of attorney, saying Emma trusted him to handle everything. A cash buyer had shown up, ready to close immediately, and David had already agreed. The deal would be finalized in just two days—Friday.
Emma felt the ground drop from under her. David wasn’t on a business trip—he was in the city, finishing the plan to take everything and disappear with Sophia.
Now she had only 48 hours.
Michael came in, saw her pale, rigid face, and didn’t even need to ask. When she told him the sale was in two days, the fear in her eyes hardened into cold determination.
She couldn’t just sit and wait—she needed to face them. And she knew exactly where she could.
It was Wednesday—family dinner night at her mother’s, where Sophia always came. The plan formed instantly. Risky. Desperate. But it was all she had.
She changed into a simple dark sweater and jeans—calm, neutral clothes that gave nothing away. At the vanity, she opened her purse and felt the weight of the silver medallion in her hand. It was the weapon she would use. Then she slipped it back inside.
“I’ll go alone,” Emma told George, who was standing in the bedroom doorway. “This is a family matter. You being there will only make things worse.”
“Be careful,” George warned. “They’re dangerous.”
“I know,” Emma said with a bitter smile. “I don’t even know them anymore.”
Half an hour later, she arrived at her mother’s house. The smell of cabbage pies came from the windows—once a smell of safety and comfort, now it felt fake, like a stage set. She took a deep breath of the cold evening air before going in.
The apartment was warm and noisy. The TV was on. Her mother, Irene, bustled happily in the kitchen. Sophia was at the living room table, flipping through a magazine.
“Oh, hi!” Sophia said lazily. “We thought you wouldn’t come. David’s buried in work, and you’re just moping at home?”
“Hi, Sophia,” Emma said with a forced smile. She kissed her mother on the cheek.
“Sit, sit, we’ll eat soon,” Irene said. “Sophia helped me today, can you believe it?”
Emma sat down, feeling her sister’s mocking gaze. She kept her eyes on the curtains and made small talk about the weather and neighbors, barely speaking. She was waiting for the right moment.
When her mother placed a big plate of pies on the table, Emma casually asked, “Sophia, planning a vacation soon?” Her voice was calm.
Sophia froze for a second, then acted surprised. “No, of course not. Why?”
“Strange,” Emma said slowly, looking into her eyes. “I thought you were going somewhere far away.”
The air grew tense. Her mother frowned. “What is this?”
Emily didn’t answer. She pretended to look for something in her purse, then slowly pulled out a silver medallion. “Look what I found,” she said, holding it out. “I thought I gave this to you. How did it get here?”
Sophia’s face went pale, then twisted with anger. “You! You stole it! You broke into my jewelry box. Thief!”
The lie was so outrageous that Emma was stunned.
Her mother rushed to Sophia, hugging her. “Sophia, calm down, sweetie.” Then she turned to Emma, furious. “What is this? Always jealous, always causing trouble. Give her the medallion and apologize.”
Sophia began crying into their mother’s shoulder—fake tears she’d used before to make Emma look bad.
At that moment, the front door opened. David walked in, smiling, holding a cake. He stopped for just a second, took in the scene—Sophia crying, Irene angry, Emily silent—and didn’t ask a thing.
He walked right past Emma to Sophia, pulled her into his arms, and said gently to Irene, “Don’t worry. Emma just stressed about the apartment sale. She’s gotten a little paranoid.” Then he looked directly at Emma, cold and calculating, and added, “Making things up.”
Emma realized it was over. They weren’t hiding anymore. In front of her own mother, David had taken her sister’s side. They’d turned her into the crazy one, and her family believed it.
Her mother looked at her with pity. Sophia, still in David’s arms, gave Emily a quick, victorious glance.
Emma stood up. There was no point arguing—it would only prove their point. She picked up her purse, looked at the three of them standing together, then walked out without a word.
No one stopped her. No one called after her.
On the landing, she could finally breathe, though the humiliation felt crushing. She went down the stairs slowly, her legs shaking. Outside, she didn’t go home right away—she just wandered the dark, empty streets, not caring where she went.
The cold wind hit her face, but she barely noticed. Inside, she felt burned out and empty. She had lost—before she even had a chance to fight.
They were ahead of her the whole time. They hadn’t just planned to escape—they had planned a part for her to play: the crazy, unstable wife no one would believe. The worst part? Her own family had already accepted that story.
Back at her car, she sat for a long time, staring at the dark windows of her apartment. She knew an enemy was inside. He was probably waiting. But she had nowhere else to go.
It was still her home. She went up. The door was unlocked. Only the bedroom light was on.
David was there, packing a large suitcase on their bed. He didn’t look surprised or guilty. Just focused, like he was doing a job.
When he heard her, he turned. The kind husband’s mask was gone—his face was cold and unreadable.
“I thought you’d stay at your mom’s longer,” he said, tossing clothes into the suitcase. Emma stopped in the doorway, staring at the suitcase, the bed, the life he was packing away—for another woman. For her sister.
“So it’s true,” she said hoarsely. “All of it.”
He smirked. “And you thought I was joking? You’ve always been so naive. So predictable.”
He kept packing, talking as if the last 15 years meant nothing. “The apartment sells the day after tomorrow. I’ll get the money—by power of attorney. You’ll get nothing.”
“You can’t do this,” Emma whispered, even though she knew he could.
“I can. And I will,” he said, snapping the suitcase shut. Then he told her she was a fool for believing the world was fair, and that he and Sophia would be happy—while she’d be left with nothing.
Something in her broke. Fear and despair turned into pure hatred.
“You’ll get nothing,” she shouted. “Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank. We have a joint account. I’ll take every last cent. That’s our money—we saved it for 15 years.”
David just laughed—loud, cruel, mocking laughter. Then he handed her a bank statement. She read it, her heart sinking.
For six months, he had been withdrawing huge amounts—$5,000, $7,000, $10,000—until nothing was left. The balance: zero.
“You took everything,” she whispered.
“Everything,” he said. “You never checked. You trusted me.”
He hadn’t just planned to take the apartment money—he had already emptied their savings. Fifteen years of work, gone.
David left with the suitcase. Emma stood in silence, the paper in her hand. That zero wasn’t just a number—it was his final judgment on her trust, her love, their life together.
She walked through the apartment like it was a stranger’s home. Every object they’d chosen together felt cold and fake—just props in his long con.
Her mind was blank. She couldn’t call friends—they wouldn’t believe her, or they’d pity her. And pity would destroy her completely.
Then she remembered one person—-
George. Her father-in-law. The only one who had told her, “The truth is there,” and handed her a hammer.
She grabbed her purse and keys and drove across the city to his old apartment building. The elevator was broken, so she climbed seven flights of stairs.
When he opened the door, there was no surprise—just grim understanding the wall, a photo of his late wife—David’s mother—smiled down at them.
.
“Come in,” he said.
His small kitchen smelled of medicine and old books. It was simple but spotless. On
Michael quietly put the kettle on the stove and got two cups. Emily sat on a stool, unsure where to begin.
She simply pulled the bank statement from her purse, set it on the table, and said, “He took everything.” Her voice broke.
Then it all came rushing out—fast, messy, tangled. She told him everything: dinner at her mother’s, the medallion, Sophia’s tears, David calling her paranoid, the cold way he packed his suitcase, and his cruel laugh when she threatened to take the money from the bank.
Michael just sat there, hands folded on the table, face unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t react—just listened. His silence said more than any words could. And the worst part was that he didn’t seem surprised.
When she finished, the kettle whistled. Michael got up, poured the boiling water into the cups, and set one in front of her.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said slowly. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
He explained he’d seen David changing since his wife Anna died—becoming harder, greedier, his eyes empty. He didn’t look at Emily like a wife, but like a resource, a stepping stone.
Then Michael admitted something that shook her—30 years ago, he’d been just like David. He had another woman, secretly saved money, and planned to sell the cottage he and Anna had built together. But Anna found out. She didn’t yell—she just looked at him with such deep disappointment that he couldn’t go through with it.
They stayed married for over 20 years after that, but the love was gone. He lived with the shame, and now believed David’s cruelty came from growing up in that cold, loveless home.
“I’m helping you,” Michael said, “not just because I care, but to make up for what I did back then. I couldn’t save my marriage, but maybe I can save you.”
Emily suddenly felt less alone. Michael understood this evil because he had once been it.
But she still had less than two days before David sold the apartment, using the power of attorney. She had nothing—just a paper with a zero balance.
Michael sat in thought, then suddenly asked, “How is the apartment registered?”
Emily explained it had first been a wedding gift from her parents, then later re-registered in both her and David’s names. Michael’s eyes lit up—he remembered the lawyer adding a special clause that meant both owners had to personally agree to a sale, not just through power of attorney.
Emily realized the original documents were still in her home safe—David didn’t know the code.
A small spark of hope appeared. Michael stood. “Let’s go. We can’t waste time.”
They drove through the night, but now with purpose. Entering her apartment, Emily went straight to the study to get the documents.
Emily found a hidden wall safe behind a painting. She opened it using her grandmother’s birthday as the code. Inside were important papers—her marriage certificate, diploma, and most importantly, the apartment purchase agreement.
She asked what to do next. Michael said he knew a private lawyer, Anthony Simmons, who worked from home and could check the document.
They went to his small, book-filled apartment. Emily handed him the contract, explaining it was urgent. He read it carefully and pointed out a clause saying the apartment couldn’t be sold without both owners signing the final contract. Emily felt huge relief—her husband’s power of attorney wouldn’t be enough to sell it without her.
But the lawyer wanted to see the power of attorney itself. Michael had secretly taken a photo of it from the realtor. When the lawyer examined the blurry photo, his face turned serious. He told Emily the document contained her forged signature, officially certified by a state notary named Paul Victor.
That meant, legally, it looked like she had been present and agreed to everything. The clause in the contract no longer protected her. She could go to the police, but the process would take months, and the sale was happening tomorrow. By the time she won in court, the apartment and money would be long gone.
The lawyer explained that the notary was the key—if he admitted to certifying a fake, the sale would collapse. But he wouldn’t confess because it would ruin him.
At dawn, Emily returned home, unable to rest. Later, Michael visited, saying he had spent all day making calls. He finally learned that Paul Victor’s wife worked at Pearl Dental Clinic. The clinic’s director, Veronica Markham, had a blood sister…
Michael let Emily figure it out, but she didn’t understand. “Markham? What does she have to do with me?” she asked.
Michael reminded her—Sophia was her sister. “Where does she work?”
Emily realized with a shock—at Pearl Dental, as a receptionist.
Michael explained: Sophia’s boss, Veronica Markham, was the sister of the wife of notary Paul Victor—the one who certified the fake power of attorney. It wasn’t some random notary bought with money; it was a family connection. David didn’t risk outsiders—Sophia had provided him with the perfect contact.
This wasn’t just an affair—it was a conspiracy. Sophia had used her job connections to find the notary who could make the fraud possible. David was the greedy muscle; Sophia was the calculating brain.
Emily felt no rage or panic now—just a cold, clinical understanding. She had 15 hours before the deal went through, too little time to sue or prove the notary’s ties to Sophia. She decided she needed to make them talk—by pretending to be broken and hopeless.
She planned to find Sophia alone, looking like she’d given up. After work, Sophia went to her usual café. Emily waited, then entered, slouched, hair messy, face tired. Sophia saw her and relaxed, thinking she’d won.
Emily acted desperate, telling her the lawyer said nothing could be done—unless the notary confessed to being pressured. She asked if Sophia knew anything that could be used against him.
Sophia took the bait. Smiling smugly, she revealed that Paul Victor had a gambling problem. She’d gotten a friend to follow him and take photos of him accepting illegal cash. She’d used those photos to blackmail him into signing the fake power of attorney.
At that moment, Emily knew—Sophia wasn’t just helping David. She had masterminded the blackmail, held the evidence, and now confessed to the entire scheme.
Emily had gotten what she came for—her sister’s confession. And she’d recorded it. Her phone, hidden in her coat pocket, had been recording since she entered the café. It wasn’t a strong weapon, maybe even illegal, but it was all she had.
She left without a word, feeling Sophia’s smug stare on her back. Let her think she’d won—for now. Outside, Emily leaned against the wall, her legs unsteady—not from weakness, but from realizing she’d just looked into the face of pure evil. And it was her sister’s face. This wasn’t just about a man or money; it was a planned crime.
She drove straight to Michael, the only person she trusted. Together, they listened to Sophia brag about blackmailing a notary with photos of him taking illegal cash. Michael said the recording might not hold up in court, but it revealed their weak spot—the notary was terrified of Sophia. Then he wondered why David was selling the apartment so fast to a shady buyer. His guess: debt to a dangerous man named Raven.
They returned to Emily’s empty apartment to search David’s things. In the lining of an old winter coat, Emily found a crumpled note: *“Sale is your last chance. After that, I’ll collect the debt from your little sister.”* Now it made sense—David owed Raven, and Sophia was the collateral. Selling the apartment was his only way out.
Then they heard a key in the door. David burst in, frantic, searching the same coat. Emily had the note in her pocket. When he realized she’d found it, fear flashed in his eyes—fear of her knowing the truth. Michael stepped between them, warning David not to touch her. At the mention of Raven’s name, David froze. He knew they understood everything.
David ran out, slamming the door.
Emma took a crumpled note from her pocket, smoothed it, and said, “Now it’s clear—he’s not just a cheat, he’s a coward. He put my sister in danger to save himself.”
George replied, “Then they deserve each other. But now we know—what drives him isn’t greed, it’s fear. He fears Raven more than the police or us. And that fear makes him dangerous.”
It was almost dawn—their last in this apartment. They had no good options: going to Raven was suicide, the police would take too long, and David was just a trapped pawn.
George thought about his late wife, Anna. She was quiet but sharp, always writing things down. Maybe she’d left something. He suggested going to her cottage.
The cottage was untouched since her death—neat, full of her things. They searched everywhere. In her desk, George found a small hidden black notebook.
It wasn’t a diary—it was a ledger. The first part listed money he owed her decades ago. The later entries were about David—his gambling debts, meetings with Raven, even insults toward Emma. Anna had been tracking everything.
Then came the last entry: Anna had discovered that their apartment building might have been built illegally decades ago. The original documents proving this still existed in the city archives. If revealed, all sales in the building could be frozen—and the whole building’s permits canceled.
George realized Anna had left them a powerful weapon. She could have stopped any apartment sale, including David’s. It was her revenge—on her unfaithful husband, her son, and the world.
Now Emma held that weapon—the “nuclear button.” Using it could ruin David and Sophia’s plans but might also harm innocent neighbors. Still, it was their only real chance before the deal went through.
They drove back to the city in the gray pre-dawn light. The notebook sat heavy on Emmas lap.
“What do we do?” she asked. “Go to the deal tomorrow and tell them the building’s illegal?”
George told Emma that without proof, no one would believe them—they had to find Valerie to get the file. But the city archives opened at nine, and the apartment deal was at noon. That left just three hours to find Valerie, convince her to help, and file a court claim. It was almost impossible.
As they entered the city, Emma had another idea—not legal, but personal. She thought of her mother, who had always defended Sophia but never saw the evidence. Maybe if her mother saw the forged power of attorney, heard Sophia’s confession, and read Anna’s notebook, she would finally believe. Emma hoped her mother was just misled, not cruel.
She told George she needed to try, and he agreed. At her mother’s apartment, Emma showed the documents and recordings. At first, her mother’s face changed—shock, doubt, maybe even regret. Emma thought she was getting through.
Then Sophia appeared, crying desperately and accusing Emma of jealousy and lies. Her mother wavered, then chose Sophia—comforting her, saying she wouldn’t let her be hurt. She claimed Sophia was too weak to survive the truth, while Emma was strong enough to endure anything.
Emma realized her mother had made her final choice: to side with lies, protect Sophia, and abandon her. It was complete betrayal. Emma left without arguing.
Back in the car, George understood instantly. She told him everything. He was furious, calling her mother selfish—saving one daughter by sacrificing the other. They drove away, with only three hours left before the deal, and no options left.
George said no one would believe them without proof—they had to find Valerie and get the file. But the archives opened at nine, and the apartment sale was at noon. Only three hours left, and it seemed impossible.
Emma had another idea—show her mother the forged papers, Sophia’s confession, and Anna’s notebook so she would finally believe the truth. At first, her mother seemed shocked, but when Sophia arrived crying and accusing Emma of lies, her mother took Sophia’s side. She said Emma was strong enough to handle anything, but Sophia wasn’t.
Emma realized her mother had chosen to protect Sophia and abandon her. It was a complete betrayal. She left without arguing, and she and George drove off with no plan and almost no time left.