Chapter 13 - THE HOUSE BUILT ON REBECCA'S LAND
The title dispute became local news.
That was not my goal.
But after the wedding video, reporters had developed an unhealthy relationship with my life.
The headline read:
CANCELED BRIDE DISCOVERS EX-FIANCÉ’S FAMILY HOME MAY SIT ON DEAD AUNT’S LAND.
My mother framed it.
I threatened to disown her.
She laughed.
The legal review confirmed Rebecca’s trust had retained a narrow but important parcel beneath the expanded portion of Gertrude’s house.
The kitchen.
The renovated kitchen.
The one I paid for.
I stared at the survey.
Noah started laughing.
“What?”
He pointed.
“Technically, your seventy-thousand-dollar renovation improved property partially sitting on your family’s land.”
I covered my face.
“This story is becoming stupid.”
“It became stupid at the tarot reader.”
Fair.
Gertrude eventually agreed to settle the title claim rather than fight.
The house would be sold.
Rebecca’s estate received compensation.
My father and Noah, as Rebecca’s surviving family and son, inherited portions.
I refused any share offered to me.
“No.”
Dad frowned.
“Savannah.”
“It’s Rebecca’s story.”
“You’re family.”
“So are you.”
Noah watched me.
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No argument.
That was one reason I loved—
I stopped the thought.
Too early.
Maybe.
The house sale covered most of Gertrude’s debts.
The remaining amount she owed me was finally repaid.
One afternoon, a certified check arrived.
I stared at the number.
$51,842.
Not everything I spent.
But enough.
More importantly, it was finished.
I deposited the money.
Then I did something nobody expected.
I donated ten thousand dollars to a local domestic financial-abuse organization.
Not because my experience was the worst thing that could happen to a woman.
It wasn’t.
But I had learned how easily money, debt, housing, marriage, and shame could become tools of control.
The organization helped women whose names were used on loans, leases, credit cards, and businesses without informed consent.
Noah read the donation letter.
“This is good.”
“I know.”
“Modest too.”
“Don’t start.”
He smiled.
That night, he took me to dinner.
Not coffee.
Not pizza.
Actual dinner.
Halfway through dessert, he looked nervous.
I noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bad at nothing too.”
He reached into his jacket.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
His eyes widened.
“It’s not a ring.”
“Good.”
He laughed.
Then handed me an envelope.
Inside were incorporation papers.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“Rebecca House Foundation.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. Financial abuse. Fraud inside relationships. Women getting trapped because leaving means losing housing or credit.”
My throat tightened.
“You created a nonprofit?”
“Drafted one.”
“Why?”
“Because I have Rebecca’s estate money.”
“And?”
“I don’t want her legacy to be a murder case.”
That broke me a little.
I reached across the table and took his hand.
“What would it do?”
“Emergency legal help. Credit restoration. Housing referrals. Financial education.”
I smiled through tears.
“She would love that.”
“I hope so.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the message.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Derek wants to speak before sentencing.”
I stiffened.
“To who?”
Noah looked at me.
“Both of us.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Reasonable.”
Then he added:
“He says he can prove Rebecca wasn’t his only victim.”
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
“He claims Marianne kept a list.”
A list of women.
Marriages.
Financial schemes.
Families.
May you like
The wedding plot had not been unique.
It was only the latest version of something Derek had been doing for decades.
