The day after the funeral, they showed up at our house. My house.

“We’re selling the place,” Callum said, sitting in Alaric’s favorite chair, arms crossed like he was in charge.

Ophelia stood nearby, glued to her phone. “Dad left it to us. You need to be out by the end of the week.”

I thought they were joking. “Alaric wouldn’t do that.”

But Callum tossed a folder onto the table. A will. Signed. Official. The house, the bank accounts—everything—was theirs.

“You can keep your clothes, of course,” Ophelia said, like she was being nice.

I stared at the papers, my head spinning. “This doesn’t make sense. I was his wife. I—”