Part 2: At my wedding, my younger sister interrupted our first dance with a pink-smoke gender reveal. Then she announced Mom had given her our 12-day honeymoon in Greece—and expected me to smile while the guests cheered.

Three days later, Santorini was everything we had ever dreamed of.

Our private cliffside villa in Oia overlooked the vast, sapphire-blue expanse of the Aegean Sea. The bright white caldera houses clung to the red cliffs, bathed in the warm, golden glow of the afternoon sun. A gentle sea breeze carried the faint scent of salt and bougainvillea blossoms across our terrace.

Daniel was lounging on the sunbed by our private infinity pool, a glass of crisp local white wine in hand, looking happier and more at peace than I had ever seen him. We hadn't talked about my mother. We hadn't mentioned Khloe. For seventy-two hours, we had lived in pure, uninterrupted paradise.

I sat at the outdoor stone table, finishing an iced espresso, watching the white sails of catamarans drift across the bay below. I felt lighter. The constant knot of anxiety that had lived between my shoulder blades since childhood was completely gone.

My new phone—purchased right before we boarded our flight, with a completely fresh, unlisted number that only Daniel's parents and my office had—sat quietly beside my plate.

Then, it buzzed.

I frowned. It was a text notification from an unknown international number.

I picked up the phone, assuming it was a tour operator or the villa's concierge confirming our dinner reservation at the cliffside seafood restaurant.

I unlocked the screen and tapped the message.

It wasn't the concierge.

The text read:

*“Maya, you think you won because you canceled the flights. You think you left us with nothing. But Mom didn't just use your emergency credit card last week.”*

My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless pit.

A second message pinged immediately after, accompanied by three high-resolution photo attachments.

*“Check your domestic credit report, big sister. Look at the commercial property Mom bought two years ago for my salon. The loan she told you was in her name? It’s not. It’s under your social security number. The real estate deed is in her name, but the seven-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage note is entirely yours. And guess what? The foreclosure notice arrived this morning. Have fun in Greece while the bank seizes your townhouse.”*

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I couldn't breathe. My hands began to tremble as I opened the first attachment.

There, stamped with an official county seal, was my forged signature on a $740,000 commercial promissory note, dated twenty-four months ago—accompanied by a final notice of acceleration and seizure against my primary residence.