Judge Katherine Sterling walked into the room, and the entire gallery stood in silence as she took her seat. Isabelle’s lawyer stood up immediately, adopting a tone of rehearsed solemnity.

“Your Honor, my client formally requests that the private agreement signed by her sister, Felicia, be honored, in which she voluntarily cedes the family property located in Aspen to my client. We believe this is fair, given that the defendant has no children or family legacy that justifies her holding onto such a significant estate.”

I felt my mother nodding in agreement right behind me, her expression one of complete vindication.

The true source of their bitterness was laid bare in that moment, as they firmly believed that a woman without a husband or children simply did not deserve a large house. They especially hated that I owned a beautiful home that my favorite sister had been green with envy over for nearly a decade.

The lawyer handed over the forged document, and my alleged signature appeared at the bottom, shaky and poorly slanted, as if a child had tried to copy my handwriting in the dark.

Isabelle dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, letting out a single, calculated, fake sob.

“I truly just want the promise she made to be kept, because that house is a family legacy,” she lied through her teeth.

The judge scanned the document with a bored expression, but then she paused, her brow furrowing as she flipped to the next page. She squinted at the text for a long moment before finally looking up at me.

“Ms. Felicia, this property is listed as being registered under the name of a corporate entity rather than an individual,” the judge noted.

“That is correct, Your Honor,” I replied, feeling my pulse steady.

Isabelle stopped her fake crying instantly, her eyes darting between her lawyer and the judge.

The judge looked back down at the paperwork and asked, “Is this cabin in Aspen one of your holdings?”

The silence in the room became heavy and suffocating as I looked at my sister, then at my parents, and finally back at the bench.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I replied clearly, “it is one of twelve different properties.”

Isabelle’s composed, victorious smile vanished as if someone had physically ripped a mask off her face. I honestly could not believe what was about to unfold, but the look of pure terror on her face told me everything I needed to know.

“Twelve different properties?” my mother blurted out, completely losing her composure and forgetting she was in a formal courtroom.

The judge glared at her, forcing my mother to shrink back into her seat while her face turned a bright, humiliated shade of red.