Zachary Howard gently placed his hand on my lower back, steering me away from the crowd that was staring at me like an accident on the highway. As we walked out into the humid San Antonio afternoon, the heavy wooden doors of the venue swung shut behind us, cutting off the sound of clinking glasses and false laughter.

The drive to my house was silent until my phone buzzed in my lap. It was an automated notification from my bank.

Alert: Your request to transfer funds from Joint Savings to External Account #8042 has been completed.

My blood ran cold. I opened my banking app with numb fingers. $450,000—the money my late father had left me, combined with six years of my surgical bonuses—was gone. The remaining balance read zero dollars and twelve cents.

"Stop the car," I breathed out. "Zachary, please, take me to my house."

Ten minutes later, Zachary pulled up outside my two-story home in the suburbs. The front yard was cluttered with cardboard boxes. Standing near the porch was Brenda, holding a glass of iced tea, watching two movers load my furniture into a rental truck.

I threw open the car door and marched up the driveway in my dirt-stained dress. "Brenda! What the hell is going to my stuff?"

Brenda turned slowly, taking a sip of her tea with a smirk that made my stomach turn. "Oh, Samantha. Look at you. Still in that pathetic dress. This isn't your house anymore. Andrew signed the transfer papers this morning before the ceremony."

"This house is under my name!" I yelled, stepping into her face. "I paid the down payment!"

"Correction," Brenda chuckled, tapping her manicured nails on her glass. "You put Andrew on the deed last year when you two got engaged. And since you failed to appear for the legal union, Andrew exercised his right as the primary mortgage guarantor to sell his share to Gemma's family. You're trespassing, dear."

A mover walked past us carrying my mother's heirloom oak vanity. I reached out to grab it, but Brenda pushed herself between us.