“Sign over the house or the wedding is off!” she demanded. I refused. My son told me to apologize or leave. I smiled, walked out, and days later, their calls never stopped.

Monday morning, Richard called me with a bizarre update. Chloe had shown up at his law office demanding to speak to me, claiming she had a "medical emergency" that changed everything.

I agreed to a video call, wanting to see this performance for myself.

When the screen flickered to life, Chloe was sitting in Richard’s conference room, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. David sat next to her, looking pale and nauseous.

"Eleanor," Chloe sniffled, staring into the webcam. "You can't do this to us. To me. I'm... I'm pregnant. You're going to be a grandmother. You can't put your grandchild on the street."

I stared at her through the screen. David looked at her in shock—clearly, this was news to him too.

"Pregnant?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Eight weeks," she lied seamlessly. "The stress of this eviction is bad for the baby. We need the lake house, Eleanor. Please. For your family."

I didn't miss a beat. "Congratulations. Richard, print out a HIPAA release form. If Chloe signs it right now, granting my private physician access to her bloodwork today, I will reinstate the trust fund immediately."

Chloe froze. The tissue dropped from her face. "I... I don't want a new doctor."

"You don't need a new one. Just authorize the blood test. If there's a baby, you get the money. If you refuse to sign, the video call ends now."

Chloe glared at the camera, her mask completely slipping. "You're psychotic."