Misty’s voice cut through the quiet garden before I could even look up.

Her expensive heels sank into the wet soil between the white rosebushes.

I kept pruning the dry branches slowly, just like my father taught me.

He always said to be gentle with plants, but never ignore what needs cutting.

Those white roses were planted the day I married Simon, meant for new beginnings.

Now they stood through the collapse of my twelve-year marriage without changing.

Misty looked like she belonged in a magazine, not in my father’s garden.

She wore a smile that always came before she tried to humiliate someone.

“Harrison’s will is being read tomorrow,” she said, already acting like she won.

“We should talk before things get uncomfortable for everyone involved,” she added calmly.

I wiped my hands and stood up, meeting her without saying a word.

She said Simon had always been like a son to my father.

“We expect to receive what is rightfully ours,” she said with confidence.

My grip tightened around the shears as anger rose in my chest.

“There is nothing to discuss,” I said coldly. “This is my father’s house.”

Misty’s smile didn’t fade when I said it. She only stepped closer into the garden path, her eyes fixed on me like she already knew something I didn’t. Then she whispered that after the will reading, I wouldn’t be standing here at all.