At my father’s funeral, he whispered, “I changed the locks on your $30 million condo. If you don’t like it, we’ll divorce.” I laughed — because he had no idea what that condo really was.

His name was Mason Reed.
Charming.
Successful.
Well-spoken.
Strategically kind.

People loved him.

I had once loved him too, before I learned that some people don’t love you — they manage you.

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice low enough to be intimate but sharp enough to cut.

“I changed the locks on the thirty-million-dollar condo your father left you,”
he whispered calmly.
“If you don’t like it, we’ll divorce. Your choice.”

For a few seconds, I didn’t process it.