My son’s fiancée forcibly cut my hair in the garden, laughing, “You’re a decrepit relic. He’ll never believe you.” She didn’t know my billionaire son came home early. He stood behind her, watching the abuse. She tried to play the victim, but he picked up her phone. “You forgot you were recording,” he whispered. When he pressed play, her life was over.
“Stop your pathetic squirming, you decrepit relic. Consider this a complimentary upgrade,” Serena Vance sneered. The cruel silver blades of the shears caught the harsh, unforgiving glare of the afternoon sun. I sat anchored to the frigid granite of the courtyard bench, my shoulders involuntarily caving inward as if I could fold myself out of existence. I…
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