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Striving for Greater, Los Angeles, CA (2026)

09/21/2026

A single message from my father arrived right after he canceled my plane ticket: “Walk home.” I couldn’t help but laugh as I looked down at the screen and typed my reply:

“You sure about that?”

Not even five minutes passed before my phone began ringing off the hook, just as our family vehicle made a sudden U-turn and raced back toward the airport.

But my decision had already been made by then.

# # Part 1

The airline employee gave me a sympathetic look as her eyes darted between her screen and my face.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Parker. Your reservation was canceled online forty-seven minutes ago by the person who originally purchased the ticket.”

For a few quiet moments, I just stood there, unable to speak.

All around me, suitcases clattered over the floor and announcements blared through Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

Merely ten minutes earlier, my father, Grant Parker, had dropped me off at another terminal door with a perfectly pleasant expression on his face.

As far as I knew, our entire family was heading to California to mark the sixtieth birthday of Linda, my mother.

Naturally, my first call went to Dad.

He didn't pick up.

So I dialed Mom next.

Silence.

When I reached out to my brother Evan, he ignored me too.

Chloe, my sister, behaved exactly the same way.

Then, my phone vibrated in my hand.

An incoming text from Dad appeared.

“Walk home.”

I had to read those words a second time.

In that instant, I realized this wasn't some accidental reservation error.

Two weeks prior, Dad had asked if I would co-sign a high-risk loan to expand his commercial sign business.

The interest rates on it were terrible.

In fact, the monthly payment on that loan exceeded my own mortgage.

The lender had been completely transparent: my stable salary was the only reason they were even reviewing the application, given the fluctuating revenue of his company.

So, I had said no.

Leaving me abandoned at the terminal was Dad’s way of punishing me for refusing to compromise my own financial security.

But a sudden realization washed over me.

There was one critical detail he had apparently overlooked.

Pulling up my phone’s travel application, I began reviewing our arrangements.

Who had secured and paid for the rental home in Carmel? I did.

The booking for the seven-passenger SUV? That was under my name.

Even the prepaid coastal excursion was registered to me.

Every single one of those reservations was currently active.

I couldn't help but grin.

With that in mind, I sent my father a quick reply.

“You sure?”

Exactly five minutes later, I watched our family SUV race back toward the airport terminal.

But his return was completely in vain.

By the time Dad’s name started flashing repeatedly on my screen, my rideshare was already driving away from the airport grounds.

He attempted to call me eleven times before my driver had even exited the airport property.

I let every single call go unanswered.

Instead, I opened up my booking app.

Fortunately, a complete refund was still available for the vacation rental.

I canceled it.

The SUV reservation?

I canceled that too.

The coastal tour?

I converted it into a travel credit for myself.

Their airline tickets remained completely untouched by me.

I didn't take a single dime from anyone.

The only thing I did was terminate the bookings that I had personally funded and secured under my own name.

Next, I reached out to my aunt Renee.

The moment she asked her very first question, my stomach dropped.

“Did Grant really cancel your ticket because you wouldn’t guarantee that business loan?”

A chill ran straight through me.

Until that very moment, a tiny part of me still hoped that Dad had simply made a rash, impulsive decision.

But Renee instantly crushed that hope.

She revealed that Dad had actually mapped out this entire scheme two days ago.

Apparently, he had argued that I needed a reminder of who helped me achieve success.

His plan, it seemed, was to freeze me out of the family until I finally gave in.

Right then and there, the trip became completely irrelevant to me.

A much larger, harsher reality suddenly came into focus.

Over the past four years, I had been silently keeping almost my entire family afloat financially.

I had been paying Chloe's school directly to cover part of her respiratory therapy tuition.

Every single month, I covered the payment on Dad’s commercial truck.

I was the one who bailed my parents out when they fell behind on their property taxes.

I had also put down a refundable deposit so Evan could get the equipment he needed to launch a mobile bicycle-repair business.

Yet, whenever I asked how my funds were being spent, they would accuse me of trying to control them.

The irony was staggering.

The moment I asked questions, my financial help was labeled controlling.

But whenever they desperately needed my cash, it was perfectly acceptable.

I opened up my banking application.

The upcoming tuition payment for Chloe was a completely optional favor.

I canceled it.

Dad's truck payment?

Entirely voluntary.

I stopped it.

Any future help with the property taxes for my parents?

Canceled.

Since the refund window for Evan's equipment deposit was still open on my credit card, I initiated the chargeback.

I demanded the refund.

I didn't claw back any money that had already been spent on them.

Their personal bank accounts remained completely untouched.

I merely made the choice to stop funding people who

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09/21/2026

After a house fire broke out at 2 A.M., my parents refused to give shelter to my 4-Year-Old Tw/ins. "Your Sister Never Has These Crises. She Owns A Fireproof Home." Clad only in my pajamas out on the street, I chose to contact an attorney right then. I instantly canceled the monthly assistance of $3,600/Month that I had sent them for 11 Years — which added up to $475,200. As the sun rose, Grandma arrived in her car, pulled both children into a hug, and said:

My place within my own family became devastatingly obvious to me, Nora Whitaker, as I watched my roof cave in under the fire while standing barefoot on the icy road at 2:17 a.m.

The whole street smelled strongly of burnt wires, wet smoke, and melting plastic. Beside the curb, the engines of the fire trucks vibrated noisily. A pulsing red glare washed over my mailbox, my split driveway, and the little American flag that Mrs. Hanley had put out on her porch, looking entirely untouched by the disaster happening nearby.

My four-year-old twins, Ethan and Emma, pressed close together under a red fleece blanket we had borrowed from Mrs. Hanley. Emma, whose bangs were marked with soot, tried to warm her one bare foot by pushing it against my leg. At the same time, Ethan kept asking over and over if his toy dinosaur had made it out of the fire.

The reality of the situation was already clear.

I had spent twelve years working as a property insurance claims adjuster. Holding my clipboard, my usual routine involved inspecting burnt-out kitchens, recording smoke stains on the walls of bedrooms, measuring damaged electrical panels, and gently guiding shell-shocked families through the reality of a total loss with a steady, comforting voice.

Tonight, though, I was the one who had lost everything.

Everyone seemed to need something from me at once: the fire marshal wanted to speak with me, the online insurance portal required pictures before the sunrise shifted the lighting, a firefighter was asking where the breaker panel was located, and the neighbor on my left was worriedly asking whether the flames had spread to his yard.

But finding a warm bed for my children was my only real focus.

Only twenty minutes down the road sat the five-bedroom house where my parents lived, featuring three empty guest rooms, a finished attic space, and a white couch that my mother treated with extreme care. When Dad's business collapsed without any public fuss eleven years ago, I started providing them with $3,600 every month, since Mom claimed their dignity kept them from asking anyone else for help.

Pride is a strange thing: people might decline to request assistance, but they have no problem taking it when it is handed to them.

Because of this, I called my mother at 2:23 a.m.

It took four rings before her voice came through the line. "Nora? Do you know what time it is?"

"Our house is on fire."

Behind us, the extreme heat caused a window to break with a sharp, metallic ring, sending glass scattering onto the lawn. Emma pressed herself against my hip to hide her face, her shaking frame easy to feel even through my heavy clothes.

My mother let out a gasp, sounding more annoyed by an interruption than shocked by an emergency. "What do you mean, on fire?"

"I mean the kitchen is gone. The roof is coming down. Ethan and Emma are outside with me. I need to bring them to your house for a few hours while I talk to the fire marshal."

A heavy pause filled the line, persisting for the time it took a firefighter to drag a new water line across our lawn.

Finally, I heard her sigh into the phone.

Rather than showing fear or concern, she sounded completely annoyed.

"Oh, Nora. You can't bring them here tonight."

Watching the flames consume what was left of my former bedroom wall, I whispered, "What?"

"I'm hosting the Magnolia Garden Circle tomorrow. The upstairs rooms are full of linens, floral arrangements, serving trays, everything. I've been preparing for three days."

"They can sleep on the couch."

"They're upset. They'll cry. Your father needs his rest."

His eyes watering from the thick smoke, Ethan looked up and murmured, "Mommy, is our house dead?"

A sudden calmness settled deep inside me.

"Mom," I spoke quietly, mindful of my children's presence, "they just watched their house burn."

"And I'm sorry," her voice carried the same refined, polite tone she reserved for bank meetings or parish events. "But you always expect us to rearrange everything whenever something goes wrong."

"Whenever something goes wrong?"

"Your sister never has these crises, Nora. Camille planned properly. She bought that new home in Madison with modern wiring and fire-resistant materials."

The reality was finally laid bare.

This was not a matter of scheduling issues or stress; it was outright judgment.

With her oldest daughter standing in pajamas, covered in soot alongside two barefoot children after an electrical fire, my mother decided to blame the whole catastrophe on my lack of preparation.

"I understand," I answered.

Her voice instantly brightened with relief. "I knew you would. Try a hotel near the interstate. We'll talk after my luncheon."

Then, she hung up the phone.

For a second, I felt a strong urge to call her right back and force her to listen to the numbers: 132 payments of $3,600, amounting to $475,200 which had saved them from losing their home, covered the costs of Dad's medicine, settled their property taxes, paid off Mom's credit card bills, and taken care of countless emergencies hidden under the guise of family duties.

Still, being angry was not going to keep my cold children warm.

I chose to say nothing.

Instead, using cold, stiff fingers, I opened my banking app, canceled the recurring monthly payment labeled MOM & DAD HOUSE SUPPORT, and took a screenshot at 2:41 a.m. I sent that picture to my email address, appending the last twelve months of bank statements and the personal folder I kept called PARENT LEDGER.

By 2:47 a.m., I was calling the lawyer who had assisted me during the painful conflict over Grandpa's estate. Since it went straight to voicemail, I recorded my information, the current time, and the words I had been too afraid to say before:

"I need to stop supporting my parents, and I need everything documented."

The fire marshal wrapped up the preliminary report by 3:18 a.m., which read ELECTRICAL ORIGIN PENDING REVIEW. Shaking as I typed, I managed to upload all the pictures to the insurance site by 4:06 a.m. Around 4:32 a.m., the thoughtful Mrs. Hanley came back outside to bring the kids clean socks, some Pop-Tarts, and mugs of hot chocolate.

My parents never tried to call me.

The only communication I received was a text from Camille at 5:11 a.m.

Mom says you're being dramatic. Are the kids actually outside?

Staring at the screen until my vision blurred, I set the phone face down on the fire truck's hood.

The sun began to rise, bringing a chilly, gray morning to the neighborhood. A dense layer of smoke hovered over the lawn like fog, showing a home that looked strangely small now that the roof was gone. Our second-story hallway was completely open to the sky, and the bedroom window belonging to the twins was black with soot.

Thankfully, Ethan had stopped asking about his toy dinosaur. Emma was fast asleep against my chest, her tiny fingers holding onto my pajama collar so tightly it felt as though she were holding onto her entire world.

At that moment, a car's headlights shone down the street.

An old blue Buick drove past the yellow caution tape and parked behind the last fire engine. My grandmother got out of the car wearing slippers, her messy gray hair quickly pinned up, a quilted jacket thrown over her pajamas, and a shaky paper cup of coffee in her hand.

She didn't ask about guest rooms or worry about the kids crying. There was no mention of flower setups, modern wiring, or Camille's safe house.

Instead, she walked straight through the cold morning air toward my kids.

When she got to us, she pulled Ethan and Emma into a tight embrace, stared over their heads at the burnt skeletal remains of my house, and looked directly into my eyes.

The look on her face changed.

With the dawn growing brighter around us, and the alert confirming my parents' canceled transaction still showing on my phone screen, Grandma hugged the twins close and said

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09/21/2026

The moment my divorce was officially finalized, I wasted no time revoking the Level 8 Pentagon clearance my former mother-in-law had been utilizing. By 4:30 AM the very next morning, my ex-husband—who is a Navy Commander—arrived at my penthouse with a tactical team that immediately started setting explosives on my door. "My ex-wife is having a psychological break. Breach it!" he ordered. Viewing me as nothing more than a vulnerable, lonely civilian, he was utterly unprepared for what lay ahead, falling apart and screaming the moment he saw who was actually waiting for him inside...

I took quiet, deliberate action on the exact day our final divorce papers were signed.

With a few keystrokes, I terminated a highly specific security clearance.

This decision had absolutely zero connection to my personal, everyday login credentials.

It was also far from any typical emergency procedure designed for ordinary citizens.

For five years, my ex-mother-in-law had routinely used a Level 8 Global Access Pass as though it were her own property, passing through high-security checkpoints without ever stopping to wonder how such premier Pentagon credentials had been granted to her in the first place.

Throughout those five years, Patricia Vance never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was just an outsider—a simple civilian who didn't belong in her esteemed military family.

Nevertheless, she had no issues taking full advantage of my secure, encrypted networks as if she belonged there.

She traveled in first-class to attend "peace summits."

She also frequented high-profile, glamorous galas held in Geneva.

Secure and restricted communication channels were constantly at her disposal.

While she bragged about her unmonitored defense stipends being a "diplomatic necessity," my background firewalls were quietly erasing every digital trace she made.

As soon as our marriage was officially dissolved inside a sterile Washington D.C. courtroom and my union with Commander Harrison Vance was over, I headed straight back to my secure apartment. Once there, I logged into my encrypted terminal and completely wiped Patricia from every single server tied to my identity.

I honestly believed that doing this would bring a final end to the entire situation.

However, I had no idea this was only the opening act.

Later that evening, at exactly 22:00 hours, my secure sat-phone started vibrating.

The caller ID showed Harrison.

My initial instinct was to simply let it ring and ignore the call.

But curiosity took over, and I decided I wanted to hear his voice one last time.

I swiped to accept.

"Claire, what exactly did you do?" he barked. "My mother was humiliated in front of the entire Joint Chiefs."

Standing quietly in my living room with a glass of scotch, I watched the distant Capitol lights flicker through my reinforced windows.

"You'll have to explain a little more, Commander," I answered calmly.

"She tried to access the Global Defense Summit in Berlin," he snapped. "Her credentials flagged red... and she was escorted out by armed guards."

For the first time in a very long time...

I smiled a warm, sincere smile, feeling absolutely no remorse.

"Maybe it was time she used a clearance that actually belonged to her."

The line went completely quiet.

After a lengthy pause, Harrison spoke in that chilling, low tone he usually saved for intense target interrogations.

"Claire... do not start a war you lack the firepower to finish."

I gently set my glass down on the desk.

"Harrison, the war ended at 0900 hours this morning. You're only now discovering that your command codes ended with it."

Then, I disconnected the call.

I promptly set up a permanent block on his frequency.

That night...

I enjoyed the most deeply restful sleep I had known in a very long time.

But a sudden noise jolted me awake at exactly 04:30 the next morning.

An unfamiliar, high-pitched sound shattered the quiet early hours.

It was a high-frequency whine.

Nobody knocked on my door.

Nor did the doorbell ring.

Instead, explosives were being mounted directly onto the reinforced steel of my entrance.

My heart began to pound heavily as panic set in.

I rapidly tapped my control panel to pull up the feed from the external security cameras.

My suspicions were confirmed; there he was.

Harrison stood right outside in full tactical gear with his weapon in its holster, trying hard to feign a look of urgent, staged panic.

Beside him was a four-man tactical entry team wearing balaclavas, keeping their weapons raised.

Directly in front of my entrance, the squad leader knelt down to prime the explosives.

Harrison pointed directly at the heavy steel barrier.

"Breach it," he instructed. "My ex-wife is experiencing a severe psychological break. We have to get inside."

For one terrifying moment, I struggled to draw a breath.

He was fabricating a mental health crisis just to force his way into my private home.

In his mind, he had me cornered.

He assumed I was sitting there helpless and terrified in the dark.

Yet, the Commander had made a massive oversight.

He had absolutely no idea who was actually listening on the line with me behind that door.

As

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09/21/2026

My parents called my husband "half a man" for twelve years due to his height, but everything shifted the moment they lost all their money—and they were left completely speechless by his sole demand when they begged him for a $20,000 check.

I will never forget the look of sheer, blatant shame on my mother's face during my wedding twelve years ago. My parents considered my husband, Jordan, a "stain" on the honor of our family because he was born with achondroplasia. They did not care that he was incredibly gifted as a brilliant architect, nor did they value his unmatched kindness toward me. To them, he was just someone they could edit out of pictures and mock behind his back.

Without even trying to hide his malice, my father delivered a wedding toast in which he laughed about hoping our future kids would "actually be able to reach the dinner table."

They went even further with their cruelty, mocking his childhood in an orphanage after being abandoned by his biological parents. In order to shield myself from their endless insults and constant hints that he was never good enough for them, my visits became rare and my phone calls slowly dwindled to nothing.

Instead of trying to get revenge, Jordan channeled his energy into quietly carving out an exceptionally successful life for himself.

Everything changed overnight when my parents' company collapsed under the weight of rising debts, erasing in mere months the entire fortune they had spent decades bragging about. A desperate, uncharacteristically polite couple stood on our doorstep when they knocked on our door last Tuesday.

They had not come to apologize; rather, having heard about a huge contract Jordan's firm had just won, they came begging for $20,000 to stop the bank from seizing their condo.

While my first reaction was to throw them out, Jordan kept his composure, inviting them in for tea and listening patiently to their sob story for two hours. After that, he went into his office and emerged a few moments later holding a written check.

$20,000.

Jordan pulled the paper back just as my mother, with eyes bright with relief, stretched her hand out to take it.

"You can have this," he said evenly, "right here, right now… but only if you fulfill ONE CONDITION."

A heavy silence fell over the room as my parents exchanged glances, their confidence starting to crumble.

"What condition?" my father asked, his voice shaking.

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09/21/2026

After giving birth to my daughter, my very first stop was to introduce her to the grandpa who had brought me up since I was little — but the moment he looked down at her face, he burst into tears and said, “This is impossible. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Grandpa had been my only father figure ever since a car crash claimed the lives of both my parents.

Because of this, Grandpa was the one who held me together when I found myself pregnant at 27 and the man I loved disappeared the exact same night I shared the news.

Caleb and he had actually never met. I kept putting off introducing them, telling myself that once things became more serious between us, we would have plenty of time.

However, after Caleb left without even a goodbye, part of me felt relieved that they had never crossed paths.

Grandpa had held my hand tightly and told me, “You bring that baby into this world, sweetheart. We’ll figure out the rest.”

Not only did he handcraft the baby's crib himself, but he also came with me to every single doctor's appointment and cried happy tears upon learning we were having a girl.

However, my delivery did not go smoothly. A brief two days in the hospital turned into nearly two weeks while little Nora fought for her life.

Yet, right from the first time I held her close, one specific detail stood out immediately.

Her striking resemblance to Caleb was hard to look at.

Those dark curls of hers were identical to his.

Even her chin featured that same small cleft.

Above all, her eyes were just as unique as his, with one being a bright blue and the other a dark brown that looked almost black.

As soon as we were finally discharged by the doctors and I had Nora held tight against my chest, I headed straight for Grandpa's home.

Pulling into the driveway, I spotted Grandpa waiting out on the porch. The moment he saw me, he stood up so fast that he ended up spilling his coffee all over the place.

“There are my girls!” he cried.

I carefully set Nora into his arms.

Immediately, his smile faded away.

He leaned in to look closely at her face, staring intensely at one eye and then the other as all the color left his cheeks.

“Grandpa?”

His hands started shaking.

“Who is her father?”

I went totally cold and froze.

“What?”

“The man you were seeing. What was his name?”

“Caleb. Why?”

Looking back at me, Grandpa wore an expression that I had never once seen on him before.

In complete shock, Grandpa said, “Oh God. You don’t even understand what you’ve done. Why didn’t you tell me who he was?”

He pulled Nora tighter against his chest, keeping his gaze locked on her eyes as if he were staring at a ghost.

My mind immediately began to spin with terrifying thoughts.

“Grandpa, what are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

Grandpa shut his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, tears were running down his face.

“I was never supposed to tell you this. Your mother made me promise.”

A cold shiver ran directly down my spine.

“But after the mistake you’ve made… I don’t have a choice anymore.”

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09/21/2026

I won eighty-nine million in the lottery—and I didn’t tell anyone. Just a few hours later, my son looked at me without a hint of warmth and asked, “Mom, when are you going to move out?” Something inside me broke, but I stayed silent. I left without a word. The next morning, I bought the house he had always dreamed of… and when they realized it would never be theirs, everything changed

My name is Carmen Villalba. I’m sixty-eight, and for the past four years I’d been living in my son Daniel’s home with his wife, Laura, just outside Valencia. After my husband died, I sold the apartment we had shared for decades to help Daniel settle a debt he never fully explained. He promised it was temporary—just a few months. But months turned into years, and little by little, my role in that house shifted. I was no longer the mother—I became something closer to a quiet inconvenience.

I cooked, cleaned, walked my granddaughter Inés to school, and even used my small pension to help with groceries. I never complained. I told myself that family meant sacrifice, that love sometimes meant swallowing your pride. What they didn’t know was that two weeks earlier, out of habit, I had bought a lottery ticket—and won more money than I ever thought possible: eighty-nine million euros. When I saw the numbers, I thought it was a mistake. I checked again and again, verified it at another office, and finally confirmed it with a lawyer. It was real. Suddenly, I—the woman they barely noticed—had the power to disappear… or to change everything

But I told no one

I needed time. I wanted to see clearly who cared about me, and who only kept me around for what I did. The answer came on a quiet Sunday night. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, while Daniel and Laura talked nearby about a house they had just seen—describing a pool, a garden, a home office, large bright rooms. They thought I wasn’t listening. Then Daniel walked in, opened the fridge, glanced at me like I didn’t belong there, and said in a tone so cold it still echoes in my mind:

“Mom, when are you finally leaving our house?”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even meet his eyes. I dried my hands, went to my room, and closed the small suitcase I always kept half-ready. I left the key on the dresser. While Laura pretended nothing was happening and my granddaughter slept down the hall, I walked out with a heart that felt like it had shattered quietly.

Outside, I called a taxi. Before getting in, I turned back and looked at the house one last time.

Right then, I made a decision that would change all of our lives by morning

👉 To be continued in the first comment👇

09/21/2026

My husband was busy packing a black suitcase as I stood in our bedroom doorway, seven months pregnant. Zipping it closed, Ryan said, "I’m done supporting you and that baby. Figure it out yourself," completely ignoring my hand resting on my belly where our daughter lay, as well as my swollen ankles. Leaving to be with another woman, he walked away without ever looking back. My life transformed just three weeks later because of a lottery ticket I bought with my very last twenty dollars, which hit the state jackpot. My phone rang with his name flashing on the screen the exact moment my face was broadcast on the evening news...

"That baby is yours," I whispered.

"You wanted her more than I did," he laughed, his voice completely devoid of humor.

Vanessa was waiting for him outside our Raleigh townhouse in her silver convertible. Although she was supposedly Ryan's "marketing consultant," this lie unraveled when a hotel receipt billed to our joint card was found by me. After emptying our entire checking account and shutting down my grocery card, he sent a text saying: Our marriage is over. Do not contact me unless it concerns the divorce. He then walked right past me and left, without touching my stomach even once.

Exactly twenty-three dollars was all that remained in my purse. After spending twenty of it at the local corner market on a lottery ticket, I was left with just three dollars to buy oatmeal. This decision lacked any grand strategy; during the darkest night of my life, it was simply a desperate, irrational spark of hope.

Both the ticket and the receipt from that night were placed inside an envelope after I took a photo of them together. My habit of keeping records was always m0cked by Ryan, who forgot that keeping books allowed me to spot discrepancies and manage my panic. Right before going to sleep, I wrote down the date he abandoned us across the front of that envelope.

For the next three weeks, a period of brutal practicality followed. To get by, I took on remote bookkeeping work at the kitchen table, established a payment plan with my obstetrician, and sold my earrings. I was driven to my medical appointments by the kindness of my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez. Meanwhile, after backing up his text message in three different spots, I made sure to record every single thing Ryan took. Naomi Brooks, a family-law attorney, immediately received the proposed separation agreement waiving child support "to keep things friendly," that Ryan had emailed to me.

"Sign nothing," Naomi warned me. "The date he left matters. So does every dollar he moved."

While I was busy sorting through receipts on Friday night, the lottery drawing was broadcast. I watched the first four numbers match up, followed closely by the fifth. My knees buckled beneath me as the last number was revealed, forcing me to grab the counter.

Worth $38.6 million, the ticket was shaking in my hands.

Naomi quickly set up a trust, a financial adviser, and a controlled public claim. At eight months pregnant and wearing a fitted emerald dress, I stood under the bright television lights to accept the ceremonial jackpot check only three days later.

Across town at that exact moment, my face popped up on the television screen inside the luxury apartment where Ryan and Vanessa were eating takeout. While Ryan scrambled to grab his phone, Vanessa dropped her w**e glass in shock.

Suddenly, my cell phone started ringing.

His name was flashing on the screen....To be continued in C0mments 👇

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