Marissa Dubois: 6 Things That Will Blow Your Mind About The Star
I blinked. “What’s going on?”
Cheryl’s eyes darted behind her, and for the first time in all the years I’d known her, she looked… terrified.
Before she could answer, a tall man in a sleek black suit stepped into view. “Miss Cheryl? We’ll be taking a look at the original documents now, if you don’t mind.”
She swallowed hard and nodded, plastering on that fake smile she always used at dinner parties. “Of course. Of course…”
I stepped inside, heart pounding. The foyer looked exactly the same—except now it was filled with silent, suited strangers and a tension so thick it made the air hard to breathe.
I turned to Cheryl. “Who are these people?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The suit guy turned to me instead.
“Are you Emma Turner?”
I nodded cautiously. “Yeah. Why?”
He extended a hand. “My name’s Mr. Langley. I’m with the Turner Family Estate Trust.”
Trust? I frowned. “I didn’t know we had a trust.”
Mr. Langley gave a tight smile. “That’s because it was sealed until your father’s passing.”
Cheryl flinched.
My pulse quickened. “What… does that mean?”
“It means your great-grandfather’s original will, along with your father’s most recent updates, included certain legal protections for this property—and a designated heir. You.”
I blinked again, stunned. “Me?”
Cheryl’s laugh was thin and brittle. “Oh, that must be some mistake. I own this house. I’ve lived here for fifteen years!”
Growing Up in the White House: Chelsea’s Oddhouse RulesMr. Langley raised an eyebrow. “Actually, you’ve resided here—but never held legal ownership. After Mr. Turner passed, the trust automatically transferred the deed to his next of kin—his daughter, Emma. That’s why we’re here. To ensure a smooth transfer.”
Cheryl’s face lost all color. “You can’t be serious. I—he—he wanted me to have it!”
Mr. Langley calmly flipped open a folder. “According to this, Mr. Turner anticipated there might be objections. That’s why the trust was established with clear instructions: If anything were to happen to him before Emma turned twenty-five, the house and all associated assets would be held in escrow for her. You were permitted to live here as a guardian, only while he was alive.”
He turned to me. “Miss Turner, would you like us to proceed with the lock change today, or give her a 24-hour window to vacate?”
Cheryl spun to me, desperate now. “Emma… sweetie. You don’t have to do this. We can share the house. You can live here too! I—I was just upset when I said you weren’t family. I didn’t mean it.”
I stared at her, memories flashing—every cold glare, every snide remark, every time she made sure I knew I was alone in that house.
I took a deep breath. “You told me to get out. So now it’s your turn.”
Her mouth fell open. “You little brat!”
Mr. Langley cleared his throat. “I think that answers our question.”
An hour later, I stood alone in the empty living room—my living room now. The walls were still the same color. The stairs still creaked on the third step. But something had shifted.
For the first time in years, the house felt warm again.
I pulled my guitar from my duffel bag, sat on the steps, and strummed a soft chord.
Grief had taken a lot from me. My mom. My dad. Even my home—for a while.
But now?
Now I had roots again.
And Cheryl?
She was just a ghost passing through.