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That night, Lucas called me, confused and shaken. His mother had already been working.
She told him I’d asked her for money. Claimed I’d threatened to embarrass the family if she didn’t pay. She hinted that I had “a past,” that I was using him as a stepping stone.
Eleanor didn’t just want me gone.
She wanted me ruined.
So I stopped defending myself.
Instead, I documented everything.
The envelope. The security footage from the café. Her emails. Her texts. The subtle threats. The lies she told different people—each version slightly inconsistent.
And when she finally escalated—calling my employer anonymously to accuse me of fraud—I stopped playing defense.
I went nuclear..
Eleanor Brooks’s power came from one thing: control of the narrative.
She chaired charities, hosted fundraisers, and curated the image of a devoted mother who had “sacrificed everything” for her children. People trusted her because she looked trustworthy.
I decided to take that away.
First, I went to a lawyer. Defamation. Harassment. Interference with employment. We sent a cease-and-desist. Eleanor laughed it off.
So we escalated.
I released the café footage—privately, not publicly—directly to Lucas. Then to his siblings. Then to two family friends she relied on most.
The footage showed her sliding the envelope. Her voice was clear. Calm. Cruel.
Then came the emails
She had underestimated me. She assumed I’d be too embarrassed to save them.
She was wrong.
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