On my first night inside the $4.8 million Malibu beach house I bought with my own money, my mother-in-law called and said, “We’re moving in tomorrow, Marcus said it’s fine, and if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else.”

Justice, served with receipts.

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, forwarded through David’s office. Eleanor’s handwriting, once imperious, now looked fragile.

Oh, Josephine, I’ve completed my therapy program. For the first time in my life, I understand what I did to you. It wasn’t about you. It was about my jealousy. You achieved everything through merit, while I inherited everything and achieved nothing. I was terrified you’d expose me as the fraud I was. So I tried to destroy you first. I’m sorry. Genuinely sorry. Not for getting caught, but for the pain I caused.

Eleanor.

I read it twice, then filed it away. Forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting boundaries. My response, sent through lawyers, was brief.

Acknowledged. The restraining order remains. Boundaries are permanent. I wish you well in your journey.

The scholarship I’d established was named after my grandmother, Rose Martinez, who’d cleaned houses to put me through college—not a Drexler scholarship. That name meant nothing to me now.