her Husband Humiliated her In Front Of His Entire Family—unaware she was the owner of the mansion
Thelma’s heels clicked softly on the polished oak floors of the sprawling Atlanta mansion. The sound was swallowed by the chatter of Maxwell’s family at their annual Thanksgiving gathering. Her heart raced as she balanced a tray of sweet potato casserole, her smile a practiced mask. Three years into her marriage, Thelma had learned to hide the bruises—both the ones on her arms and the ones on her spirit. Maxwell’s sharp tongue and heavy hands had become her reality. But tonight, in front of his kin, she played the perfect wife.
The mansion, her secret inheritance from her late father, hummed with life. Yet she felt like a ghost within its walls. The dining room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. Maxwell’s mother, Dorene, held court at the table’s head, her voice booming about family pride.