I handed one to Victoria.

Then Clara.

“I am Anastasia Dunaway. General Manager and Minority Partner of Green Mountain Botanicals.”

Clara stared at the card.

I pointed toward the event program.

“My name is on page three as the primary contractor for this gala.”

Then I looked directly at my mother.

“I pay taxes. I own property. I have a valid driver’s license. I run a company.”

I paused.

“I am extremely alive.”

Clara suddenly looked sick.

“The tree…”

She stared at me.

“The dogwood I bought in New Jersey…”

Her eyes widened.

“You were the woman at the nursery.”

“Yes.”

Clara covered her mouth.

I continued quietly.

“My mother made me leave the house every time you visited because she thought my history would embarrass the family.”

Julian looked down.

“And eventually, apparently, telling you I was dead became easier.”

The surrounding guests went silent.

Then I added the part that made Victoria’s face change completely.

“They even created a memorial room.”

My mother shook her head violently.

“No.”

“A granite plaque. A photograph. A fake death year.”

Victoria looked at Eleanor with horror.

“We donated to your memorial foundation.”

My mother’s composure shattered.

“She’s lying! Someone call security!”

I stepped closer.

“Security already knows who I am.”

Then I gestured toward the enormous indoor woodland surrounding us.

“This is my event.”

My voice lowered.

“You are the uninvited guest standing inside my forest.”

The Dunaway family collapse began that night.

By midnight, people were talking.

By the following morning, the story had reached New Jersey.

For years, my parents had accepted donations through the Anastasia Dunaway Youth Mental Health Memorial Fund.

My supposed death had become part of their charitable identity.

But I was alive.

And once that became public, people started asking where the money had gone.

Victoria was furious.