In the weeks that followed, the family launched their war: whispered calls, legal threats, glossy interviews painting Paige as a gold-digger who’d preyed on a confused old woman. They fed tabloids photos of Eleanor looking frail, cropped Paige out of every frame, rehearsed a version of history where love could be backdated and signatures rewritten. Paige answered none of them. Instead, she funded the nurses Eleanor had once begged for and opened the dusty piano room to music students who could never afford the view, letting wrong notes ricochet off ceilings that had only ever heard polite lies. Victoria and Madison watched from a distance as their old penthouse became a refuge instead of a trophy case, every scholarship and open door a quiet indictment. When the final court ruling upheld the will, they arrived in black suits, expecting greed, gloating, some vulgar display of victory they could finally desp… Continues…
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