Stella finally reached her business-class seat on the plane. She had saved for this moment, hoping for a comfortable journey. But before she could sit down, a man sitting next to her protested loudly.
“I don’t want to sit next to that… woman!” Franklin Delaney nearly shouted at the flight attendant who had guided Stella to her seat.
“Sir, this is her assigned seat. We can’t change it,” the stewardess said calmly, trying to reason with the businessman. Franklin’s face twisted in frustration.
“That can’t be right. These seats are expensive! She couldn’t possibly afford one. Just look at her clothes!” He gestured toward Stella’s outfit. It wasn’t fancy, but it was the best she owned. She had carefully chosen it, wanting to look presentable, yet here she was being judged. Her cheeks burned with shame.
Other passengers turned to watch the scene unfold. Stella stared at the floor, feeling small and out of place. To her shock, some of the other business-class passengers agreed with Franklin.
“She probably belongs in economy,” one man muttered.
“She must have made a mistake,” another woman whispered.
Stella swallowed hard. She had never been more humiliated in her life. She had spent all her savings on this ticket. It was meant to be a special journey. Now, it felt like a mistake.
“Miss, it’s okay,” she said quietly, turning to the flight attendant. “If there’s an empty seat in economy, I’ll move. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
But the flight attendant shook her head firmly. “No, ma’am. You paid for this seat, and you deserve to sit here. No one has the right to say otherwise.”
She turned back to Franklin, her voice sharp. “Sir, if you continue causing a disturbance, I will call airport security to have you removed from the plane.”
Franklin sighed in frustration, realizing he had no choice. He crossed his arms and looked away. Stella hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered herself into the seat beside him.
As the plane took off, Stella clutched her armrests, her body tensing. It was her first time flying, and the sudden rush of movement startled her. In her nervousness, she accidentally dropped her purse. The contents spilled onto the floor.
To her surprise, Franklin bent down and helped gather her belongings. As he handed them back, something caught his eye—a ruby locket.
He whistled. “Wow, this is something else.”
“What do you mean?” Stella asked, clutching the locket protectively.
“I’m an antique jeweler,” Franklin explained. “And this locket? It’s incredibly valuable. Those rubies look real. Am I right?”
Stella hesitated, running her fingers over the familiar surface. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “My father gave it to my mother a long time ago. She passed it down to me after he never came home.”
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“He was a fighter pilot in World War II,” Stella explained, her voice soft with memory. “When America joined the war, he left, promising my mother he’d return. I was just four years old, but I remember the day he left. He never came back.”
Franklin’s expression softened. “That’s terrible.”
“It was,” Stella nodded. “My mother never recovered. She kept this locket as a reminder of him. We struggled to get by, but she never sold it. When I turned ten, she gave it to me and told me to treasure it. I’ve held onto it ever since. It’s not the monetary value that matters to me—it’s the memories inside.”
Curious, Franklin watched as Stella opened the locket. Inside were two small photographs. One showed a young couple, clearly in love. The other was a baby.
“These are my parents,” Stella said, smiling wistfully. “And this”—she pointed to the baby photo—“this is my son.”
“Your son?” Franklin asked. “Is that why you’re on this flight? Are you going to visit him?”
Stella hesitated before nodding. “Yes… and no.” She sighed. “I had him when I was in my 30s. His father left before he was born, and I was alone. I wanted to give him the best life, but I couldn’t. I had no money, no family to help. I made the hardest choice of my life and gave him up for adoption.”
Franklin frowned. “Did you ever reconnect?”
“I tried,” Stella admitted. “I found him through a DNA test. A neighbor’s son helped me email him, but when he replied, he told me he was fine and didn’t need me. I wrote to him several more times, but he never responded.”
Franklin scratched his head. “Then… why are you on this flight? You said you were here for him.”
Stella took a deep breath. “He’s the pilot of this plane. Today is his birthday. I may never get to speak to him, but at least I can be near him for a few hours. That’s enough for me.”
Franklin didn’t respond. He just wiped at his eyes, pretending he had dust in them. Meanwhile, a flight attendant had overheard Stella’s story. She quietly slipped into the cockpit.
Moments later, the intercom crackled to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing soon. But before we do, I have a special announcement. Today, I want to welcome someone very dear to me—my birth mother, who is flying with me for the first time. Hey, Mom… wait for me when we land.”
Stella gasped, her eyes welling up with tears. Franklin patted her shoulder, feeling ashamed for how he had treated her earlier. He was glad, at least, that he had apologized.
When the plane touched down, Stella barely had time to react before a tall, uniformed man rushed toward her.
“Mom,” he whispered, wrapping her in a tight embrace.
Passengers and crew clapped and cheered as mother and son held each other for the first time in decades.
“Thank you,” John murmured into her ear. “For doing what was best for me back then. And for never giving up on me now.”
Stella smiled, her heart finally at peace.
Lessons from this story:
- Never judge a stranger. Franklin judged Stella unfairly and later regretted it.
- Forgiveness is powerful. Stella forgave Franklin, and her son found it in his heart to forgive her too.
- Love always finds a way. Even after years apart, a mother’s love brought them back together.
My Husband Left Me for My High School Friend After I Miscarried — Three Years Later, I Saw Them at a Gas Station and Couldn’t Stop Grinning
By Allison Lewis
- Published on
- Reviewed by Lauren Murphy
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When my husband started acting distant, I turned to my best friend for comfort. She told me I was overthinking things. Turns out, I wasn’t. But three years later, fate gave me front-row seats to the consequences of their betrayal.
I used to think betrayal happened to other people—the kind of drama you read about online or hear whispered at dinner parties. Not to me. Not to us.
For five years, Michael and I built a life together. It wasn’t flashy, but it was ours. Cozy movie nights on the couch, lazy Sunday morning coffee runs, and inside jokes only we understood. Our love felt strong, unbreakable.
And through it all, there was Anna—my best friend since high school, my sister in every way but blood. She had been there for every major moment, including my wedding day. She stood beside me as my maid of honor, holding my hands, crying happy tears as I said my vows.
So when I got pregnant, I thought it was just another chapter of our perfect life.
But then, Michael changed.
At first, it was subtle—the way he lingered at work a little longer, the way his smiles stopped reaching his eyes. Then, it got worse. He barely looked at me. Conversations turned into one-word responses. Some nights, he rolled over in bed with his back to me, as if I weren’t even there.
I didn’t understand. I was exhausted, heavily pregnant, and desperate to fix whatever had snapped inside him.
So I turned to Anna.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I sobbed into the phone at midnight, curled up in the dark while Michael slept beside me, oblivious. “It’s like he’s already gone.”
“Hel, you’re overthinking,” she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. “He loves you. It’s just stress.”
I wanted to believe her.
But the stress of it all—the sleepless nights, the constant anxiety, the aching loneliness despite being married—wore me down.
Then, one morning, I woke up with a dull pain in my stomach. By evening, I was in the hospital, staring at a doctor’s lips moving but not really hearing the words.
No heartbeat.
No baby.
Grief is supposed to come in waves. Mine felt like an avalanche.
The miscarriage shattered me. But Michael? He was already gone. He sat beside me in the hospital, cold and silent, his hands never reaching for mine. No whispered reassurances. No grief-stricken apologies. Just a man who looked like he was waiting for a bus, not mourning the child we had lost.
A month later, he finally said the words I think he had been rehearsing for weeks.
“I’m not happy anymore, Helena.”
That was it. No explanation, no emotion. Just a hollow excuse.
The day Michael left, it wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t some explosive fight with shouting and tears. No, it was much colder than that.
I blinked at him from across the kitchen table, the weight of those words pressing against my chest like a rock.
“What?” My voice cracked.
He sighed, rubbing his temples like I was the problem. “I just… I don’t feel the same. It’s been this way for a while.”
A while.
I swallowed hard. “Since the baby?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s not about that.”
The lie was almost laughable.
I stared at him, waiting for something—remorse, guilt, anything. But he just sat there, avoiding my eyes.
“So, that’s it? Five years, and you’re just… done?” My hands curled into fists under the table.
He exhaled, sounding almost bored. “I don’t want to fight, Helena.”
I let out a shaky laugh, the kind that comes when you’re on the verge of breaking. “Oh, you don’t want to fight? That’s funny because I don’t remember getting a say in any of this.”
He stood up, grabbing his keys. “I’ll be staying somewhere else for a while.”
Before I could say anything, he banged the door and left.
Anna, my best friend, followed soon after. She had been my rock, my lifeline through it all. But one day, she stopped answering my calls. My messages went unread. Then, suddenly—blocked. On everything. Instagram, Facebook, even my number. It was like she had vanished off the face of the earth.
I didn’t understand. Until I did.
It was my mother who found out first. She called me one evening, her voice hesitant. “Helena, sweetheart… I need you to check something.”
She sent me a link to Anna’s Instagram.
And there they were.
Michael and Anna. Laughing on a sunlit beach, arms wrapped around each other like they had been in love for years. His lips pressed against her temple, her head tilted back in laughter.
I scrolled down, my hands trembling. Picture after picture, spanning weeks. Dinners at expensive restaurants, trips to ski resorts, candlelit evenings by the fire. She had been posting them freely, openly—while I was still legally married to him.
The betrayal burned through me like acid. But if they thought I was going to collapse and fade away, they were sorely mistaken.
I took my pain and turned it into power. Michael was sloppy, too caught up in his fantasy to cover his tracks. The evidence of his affair was undeniable—legal ammunition in our divorce. In the end, I walked away with the house, half of his money, and the satisfaction of knowing he’d have to start over from scratch.
He took my trust. I took what I was owed.
Starting over wasn’t easy. There were nights I lay awake, wondering if I would ever feel whole again. If I would ever love again.
But life has a way of rewarding resilience.
A year later, I met Daniel.
He wasn’t just different from Michael—he was everything Michael wasn’t. Kind. Attentive. When I told him about my miscarriage and betrayal, he just pulled me into his arms and whispered, “You deserved so much better.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
We built a life together. A real one. And soon after, we welcomed a baby into our world—a beautiful little girl with my eyes and his smile.
Then, one night, fate handed me the sweetest kind of closure.
At a gas station, I saw them—Michael and Anna. Their car was an absolute wreck, their baby crying, their credit card declined.
Anna hissed at Michael, “Are you serious? We don’t even have gas money?”
He groaned, “Maybe if you stopped spending so damn much—”
“Oh, I’m the problem?” she shot back. “Just like you ‘weren’t’ cheating on Helena, right?”
I bit back a grin. Karma is a beautiful thing.
Anna let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “I think Helena got the better end of the deal.”
Smiling to myself, I drove home to my real happiness.
3 Incredible Stories Where Money Caused a Rift in the Family
- Published on
- Reviewed by Lauren Murphy
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Money is often called the root of all evil, but really, it’s not the money that causes problems—it’s the way people act when they have it. In these three stories, big sums of money revealed the true sides of those involved. Some people tried to take control, while others tried to fix what had been broken. You’ll read about how money and lies caused family turmoil—and, in one case, how it all turned out in the end.
1. My Stepmom Tried Kicking Me Out Only to Discover Something Shocking About Our House That Turned the Tables Around
I was exhausted. My days were a blur of college classes and working at a gaming store late at night, barely keeping up with everything. I hated my part-time job because I knew my dad made enough money for me to focus on school without worrying about it. But my stepmom, Karen, insisted I work, saying it would “teach me responsibility.”
That evening, I came home late, dragging myself through the door, and Karen was right there, waiting for me.
“Why are you late? You were supposed to clean today!” she demanded, her arms crossed, looking angry.
“I’m tired. I’ll clean tomorrow,” I said, trying to stay calm.
“Tomorrow? That’s not how responsibility works, Marcus,” she snapped.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You’re home all day. Is cleaning that difficult?”
Her face turned bright red. “How dare YOU speak to ME like that!” she shouted.
Before the argument could get worse, my dad walked in. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking between us.
“Marcus refuses to clean,” Karen said, crossing her arms in a huff.
“I’m not refusing. I’ll clean tomorrow,” I repeated, swallowing my frustration.
Dad sighed and glanced at Karen. “He’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s drop it.”
I felt relieved and started heading upstairs, but then Dad called out, “Don’t go anywhere tonight, son. We have news.”
I frowned, confused, but went to my room. Later, when Dad came to get me, I dragged myself back down to the kitchen. There was a cold plate of leftovers waiting for me, and I poked at it, feeling the tension in the air.
“So, what’s this big news?” I asked, glancing up.
Dad exchanged a look with Karen. Then, both of them announced together, “We’re pregnant!”
I froze, almost choking on my food. “Uh… congratulations,” I said, forcing a smile.
But Karen’s face stayed cold. Dad looked excited, but Karen wasn’t showing any joy.
Then, Dad cleared his throat and said, “Son, I don’t know how to say this… but…”
Before he could finish, Karen interrupted, “Actually, Marcus, YOU need to move out.”
I stared at her, stunned. “What? Dad, what is she talking about?” I asked, my voice shaky with disbelief.
Karen didn’t even flinch. “My baby is coming, and we need the house for it. Maybe do some renovations. You’ll be a burden, so you’ll have to go.”
“Dad? Where am I supposed to go? I can’t afford rent! I’m a full-time student, and I work part-time! Please, Dad, say something!” I pleaded, my heart racing.
Dad just looked at me, his face full of discomfort, but didn’t speak.
I felt betrayed. Without thinking, I snapped, “You know what? You two can go to hell!” and stormed off to my room, slamming the door behind me.
That night, I lay in bed, feeling completely alone. They couldn’t just kick me out like that, could they? The muffled voices outside the door made me press my ear to it.
I could hear Dad, unsure, saying, “Maybe he should stay until he finishes school…”
“No, Tom, we’ve been over this,” Karen replied firmly. “He has to go.”
I felt my heart sink. I was on my own.
The next day, Karen came into my room without knocking. “You have three days to figure it out,” she ordered.
I was furious. “I’m a student with a part-time job! I can’t afford a place, let alone in three days!”
She didn’t even respond, just walked away.
In that moment, I thought of Grandma Rose. She was always there for me, and maybe—just maybe—she’d help me now. I picked up the phone and called her.
“Grandma Rose? It’s Marcus…” I choked, barely holding back tears.
“Marcus? What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.
I told her everything, and she listened quietly before replying, “Do nothing, sweetheart. I’ll be there soon.”
The next day, Grandma Rose arrived at our house, looking fierce. She didn’t waste any time.
“Everyone to the living room. NOW,” she ordered.
Karen glared at her, but Rose didn’t back down.
“How dare you throw a child out of his own home?” Rose demanded, her voice as sharp as a knife.
Karen shot back, “Marcus isn’t a child.”
Rose didn’t hesitate. “Until he finishes school, he is. But that doesn’t matter. This is Marcus’s house. He’s not going anywhere.”
I could hardly believe my ears as Karen scoffed. Rose wasn’t done, though.
“My late sister left this house to Marcus. It’s his since he turned eighteen,” she said, looking at Karen directly.
The room went quiet. Karen’s face twisted with rage, but Rose wasn’t finished.
“And Karen,” she added coolly, “how’s that wine you’ve been drinking? Odd for a pregnant woman.”
Karen’s face turned white. “What? How do you know about that?”
“I saw you at the café with your friend this morning,” Rose replied.
With that, Karen’s lie came crashing down. “There is no baby!” she blurted, panic in her voice.
Dad looked at her, stunned. “You lied?”
Karen scrambled to explain, but Rose’s calm voice stopped her. “Pack your things and go.”
Minutes later, Karen was out of the house. Dad looked at me, his face full of regret.
“I’m sorry, son. I don’t know what came over me.”
For the first time in a long while, I felt safe. I hugged him, the relief washing over me. “I’m glad you’re on my side, Dad,” I whispered.
2. Hate Tore My Family Apart Until My Grandmother Brought Us Together One Last Time with a Great Revelation
Scott and I were heading to Grandma Eleanor’s for her 80th birthday. It had been years since the whole family gathered together—mostly because we didn’t get along. As we pulled up, Scott grumbled, “I still don’t get why we’re here.”
“It’s Grandma’s birthday,” I reminded him, feeling my stomach tighten with nerves. “She’s the only one who still cares about us, and she wants us all together.”
He sighed. “I could be working right now. We need the money.”
“It’s just one evening,” I replied, rubbing my stomach absentmindedly.
Scott chuckled. “If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t notice. But what about telling Grandma?”
“Maybe later,” I whispered.
As we walked toward the door, my brother Michael and his wife, Stacy, came up behind us, and Stacy hobbled in heels, complaining. “I can’t run in these!”
Scott and I exchanged a glance. Stacy only cared about Michael’s money.
We finally rang the doorbell, and Grandma Eleanor greeted us with her usual warm smile. Inside, the table was filled with food.
“Why so much, Grandma?” I asked, impressed.
“Oh, I love doing this,” she said, beaming.
We settled in, but things quickly got tense. Michael asked, “Is Mom coming?”
“She’s not sure,” Grandma replied, her voice a little sad.
I muttered, “Typical. She never has time for us.”
Michael shot me a glare. “Stop. She’s our mom.”
“Yeah, and she hasn’t even wished me a happy birthday in years!” I shot back.
The argument escalated, with insults flying. Scott put a hand on my shoulder, but I pushed him away, angry. “You only have those restaurants because Uncle handed them to you!” I shouted at Michael.
He stood up, fists clenched. “You’ve always been jealous, haven’t you?”
“Jealous of what? Your wife, who’s only after your money?”
“You have it so good, huh?” Michael sneered. “Your husband can barely hold a job. How long have you been trying for kids? Five years? Ten?”
“Go to hell!” I yelled, standing up in fury.
“Enough!” Grandma Eleanor’s voice cut through the chaos as she stood up. “This is my birthday. I brought you all here to celebrate, not to argue! And as for the inheritance…”
My head snapped toward her. “Inheritance?”
Her voice grew stern. “Your grandfather left something for you, but I’m not leaving a penny to either of you until you prove you deserve it.”
Michael shot up. “How do we prove it?”
“Show me you deserve it,” Grandma said softly before leaving the room.
I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, my hands instinctively cradling my stomach. Michael followed, and we exchanged tense words about the inheritance. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t let go of it.
Inside, I found Grandma in her room. “I’m sorry, Grandma, for ruining tonight,” I said, trying to make amends.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is this how you think you’ll win the inheritance? Do you really need it, Camilla?”
I placed my hand on my belly. “Because…”
Just then, Michael burst in, shouting, “Camilla’s lying about me!”
“We weren’t even talking about you,” Grandma said, clearly irritated.
As we returned to the dining room, Mom arrived, her arms wide open. “My darlings!”
She immediately criticized me. “Camilla, have you gained weight?”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the table, trying to ignore the bickering that resumed. Suddenly, Grandma collapsed, clutching her chest.
“Grandma!” I screamed, clutching my stomach. “Call an ambulance!”
Scott rushed to my side. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s starting,” I gasped.
Scott’s eyes widened. “Labor?”
“Yes!” I cried.
Michael stared, shocked. “You were pregnant?!”
Our mom blinked in surprise. “I’m going to be a grandma?”
I screamed for them to call 911. The chaos around me seemed like a dream, and all I could focus on was the life growing inside me.
After I gave birth, I learned the devastating news: Grandma had passed away while I was in labor. But in her belongings, there was a letter for us. It revealed she had known I was pregnant and left her entire inheritance to Scott and our baby. She also asked Michael to divorce Stacy and urged our mom to do better for us and her future grandchild.
Michael, filled with remorse, said, “I’m sorry for what I said, Camilla.”
Our mother, guilt written all over her face, whispered, “Could I… be a real grandma?”
“Maybe,” I replied, holding my newborn. “Her name is Eleanor.”
3. I Thought My Father Was Dead, Only to Find Out a Sinister Truth When We Tried Burying Him
It was a cold, gray day when I stepped out of the car and stood in front of the church. My heart felt heavy as I thought about losing my father. “We couldn’t even give him a proper funeral,” I thought to myself, as the reality of his death sank in.
Bella, Dad’s dog, barked suddenly from the car. She was usually calm, always content to stay in the car during these moments. But today, something was off. Her barking was frantic, more than usual.
“Bella!” I called out, turning to look at her. She was at the window, scratching it with her paws, her eyes wide and desperate.
I signaled to her, hoping she would settle down. After a few moments, she lay down, but her gaze stayed fixed on me.
“Stay, Bella,” I whispered softly, reaching through the window to pat her head.
Reluctantly, I walked into the church, trying to ignore the worry gnawing at me. Inside, the air was heavy with grief, and Dad’s casket stood at the front of the room, roped off. He had passed away from an infection, and I knew this was the last time I would see him.
I sat next to my mother, feeling the weight of never getting a proper goodbye. The quiet was broken as the final hymn began. But just as the music started, Bella’s bark echoed through the church, sharper than ever. I froze, my heart racing, knowing something wasn’t right.
Suddenly, there was a loud crashing sound. Bella had somehow gotten out of the car and jumped on the casket! Flowers flew across the room as she barked and scratched at the lid!
Panic surged through me. I jumped up from my seat. “Open the casket!” I shouted, the words flying from my mouth before I could even think.
The murmurs from the crowd were deafening, but I barely heard them. All I cared about was getting to the truth. Without waiting for anyone else, I threw the casket open myself.
It was empty.
A stunned silence followed. Gasps and whispers filled the air. I turned to the funeral director, my voice rising with desperation. “Where is he?” I demanded.
My mother, overcome with shock, collapsed into my arms, and I barely caught her as she fainted. “Mom!” I shouted, feeling a surge of fear. I rushed her to the hospital, my mind racing with questions. “How could Dad’s body be missing?” I kept wondering, my thoughts swirling in disbelief.
That night, after making sure my mom was okay, I called the police. Detective Bradshaw arrived at my house, looking serious as she spoke.
“The coroner confirmed your father’s death and released the body to the funeral home,” she said, reviewing her notes. “Could your father have been involved in anything dangerous before he died?”
I shook my head. My dad had always been a model businessman, running a successful dog training and rehabilitation center. He had a reputation for honesty and integrity. “No,” I replied, “Dad was a man of good standing. He wouldn’t have been involved in anything like that.”
Detective Bradshaw left without any answers, but I couldn’t just sit back and wait. I had to find out the truth. I decided to go to the morgue on my own the next day.
At the morgue, a nurse greeted me with a cold stare. “The coroner resigned, and there’s no replacement yet,” she told me, sounding disinterested.
I asked for my father’s file, but she refused, so I slipped $1,000 onto the counter. Her eyes flicked to the money, and she reluctantly let me into the coroner’s office. When I opened the file drawer, Dad’s file was gone.
Frustrated, I left the morgue and went straight to my father’s office. There, I logged into his email account, hoping to find something that would explain what happened. But as soon as I opened the inbox, I saw that every single message was deleted. I slammed the laptop shut in anger.
Just then, Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Stevens, walked in. His face was serious, and I could tell something was off.
“Ryan,” he said, “You’re the new CEO of the company.”
“What happened to Dad’s stuff here?” I asked, noticing that two dancer figurines were missing.
Mr. Stevens hesitated. “Your father took them home, supposedly. Though I don’t think he ever found the third one. The collector wants half a million for it.”
I didn’t believe him. I had already searched the house thoroughly while packing up Dad’s things, and those figurines were nowhere to be found.
But there was more. Mr. Stevens continued, “We’re in serious debt. Investors are pulling out. Your father missed several meetings before he disappeared.”
My head spun. “And there’s something else you should know,” Stevens added, lowering his voice. “I believe Arnold had a relationship with his new secretary.”
That hit me hard. I tried to push the anger down, but it was hard. I spent the rest of the day trying to calm investors, but my mind kept racing. That night, I went to track down Dad’s secretary, Miss Pearson.
I tailed her all the way to her house and waited until she drove off. Then, I snuck into her garage, hoping to find something that would explain Dad’s disappearance. Inside, I found a photo of her kissing Dad, framed and displayed proudly on the coffee table.
But that wasn’t all. In a manila envelope, I discovered Dad’s $7 million life insurance policy, with Miss Pearson as the sole beneficiary.
I didn’t waste any time. I took the evidence straight to the police. Detective Bradshaw reviewed the details and confirmed that Miss Pearson was booked on a flight to Morocco, a country with no extradition treaty.
The police were quick to act. They rushed to the airport, but by the time they arrived, Miss Pearson had vanished without a trace.
I refused to give up. My last lead was the third dancer figurine. I found the collector and paid an outrageous $750,000 for it, desperate to catch Dad in the act. I scheduled an auction, hoping Dad would hear about it and show up.
The day of the auction, I hid in the shadows, my heart pounding. At $1 million, I heard a familiar voice call out a bid.
It was Dad.
I stepped forward and blocked his way, just as Detective Bradshaw and her team surrounded him. They slapped handcuffs on him as he glared at me.
“Ryan? You set me up!” Dad spat.
“You faked your death to run off with your mistress, leaving us to grieve over an empty casket!” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger and disbelief.
Dad’s face fell, and he finally confessed. “I wanted a new life… a life without the burden of responsibility.”
My stomach turned with disgust. “You taught me that a man should do what’s right, not follow his selfish desires,” I said coldly. “I hope you remember that.”
As the police took Dad away, I knew that he would finally face the consequences of his actions. The truth had come out, and it had cost him everything.
