One night, my best friend and I went to a jazz club to lift my spirits. The music was soft, the lights warm — until her face froze and she whispered, “Natasha… is that Logan?” I turned and saw him, grinning, with a young woman draped over him. When I confronted him, he didn’t even flinch. He smirked and said, “I’m in love with someone else. We’re done.”
The next morning, I returned home to find my belongings scattered on the lawn like garbage. Logan and his mistress stood on the porch, smug. “This house belongs to my grandfather,” he sneered. “You’re out.”
That’s when a sleek black BMW pulled up. Out stepped Mr. Duncan, Logan’s grandfather — the real owner of the house. His confusion turned to fury as he took in the scene. “It looks like you’ve kicked my favorite granddaughter-in-law out,” he said, voice booming, “so here’s what’s going to happen: Natasha stays.
You leave. Effective immediately.” And with that, Logan was cut off from all family money.Within days, his mistress was gone, and Logan came crawling back, broke and desperate. “Can you call Grandpa? He’ll listen to you,” he begged. I smiled. “Nope. You made your bed — lie in it.” Then I shut the door.
