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The final line of code compiled, my latest multi-billion dollar tech merger project complete. I, Chloe, had delivered. Then my phone buzzed with an urgent neighborhood alert from back home. "Chloe, your mother, is she okay?" Mrs. Gable asked, attaching a shaky video. It showed my elegant mother, a renowned art restorer, rummaging through garbage bins, disheveled and thin. This couldn't be true. I' d set up a trust, paid for everything-even a luxurious round-the-world cruise she was supposedly on. But the next image shattered me: my mother' s custom-made emerald gown and heirloom sapphire necklace on Brenda, our housekeeper, at a "charity gala." The sheer audacity ripped through me. They were symbols of my love, meant only for Mom. My stepfather, Mark, dismissed the video as Mom' s "new hobby" and claimed she' d lent Brenda the treasures. His lies were thin, but when I heard Brenda and Mark plotting to permanently confuse Mom with a "new mixture" in her tea and have her committed to steal everything, my blood ran cold. They had built a house of lies on my mother' s broken mind, and I was 10,000 miles away, powerless. Not anymore. I cancelled everything. I was flying home. They had no idea who they were dealing with.