I was sipping my afternoon tea when a post caught my eye.
"My son was born right here in Northbridge—and the moment he arrived, Grandma gifted him eight properties and three storefronts!"
"Daddy's already set aside 6.6 pounds of gold for him. Any sweet girls out there interested in becoming my future daughter-in-law?"
The post was blowing up. Tens of thousands of likes and comments.
I almost scrolled past—just another braggart fishing for attention—until I zoomed in on the photos.
My blood ran cold.
Those properties. Those storefronts. They were my dowry. The ones I'd brought into my marriage.
And that gold? I could see the engraving on the bars. My daughter's initials.
How the hell had they ended up in some stranger's post about her son?
——
I checked the address plates on the storefronts again. Three consecutive unit numbers—the exact ones my parents had specifically chosen when I got married. "For your future," they'd said. "Collect the rent and live well."
As for the gold, there was no mistaking it. Denise Delgado's initials were etched right into the side.
My fingers flew across the screen: "Are these really yours?"
The reply came instantly.
"If they're not mine, what—are they yours?"
Before I could respond, more photos appeared. A woman draped in designer labels, cradling an infant, surrounded by heaps of gold and jewelry like some dragon guarding its hoard.
Then another message:
"I'm looking for a future daughter-in-law, not a nanny."
"I checked your profile. That daughter of yours? Not exactly what we're looking for, sweetie."
The casual cruelty of it blanked my mind.
But the comments section had already descended into a feeding frenzy.
"OMG, OP ate her UP! Some people are just bitter!"
"Right? Can't afford it yourself so you accuse others of faking? Pathetic!"
Someone had even screenshotted my daughter's photos from my profile: "OP's not wrong though—her kid is... yikes And she's trying to get attention under OP's post?"
"Give it up, girl. The young master doesn't want your little servant!"
My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. The phone nearly slipped from my fingers.
Denise was five years old.
She was the light of my life—mine and Patrick Delgado's. We adored her.
And I had never—never—posted her photos looking for some marriage arrangement.
Where did these people get off saying these things about my child?
I screenshot everything and fired it into the Delgado family group chat: "How did MY belongings end up in someone else's post?"
Silence.
A few seconds stretched into eternity.
Then Evelyn Delgado's voice message popped up: "These things are all yours, dear. Did you post them online somewhere and someone stole the pictures?"
A sigh, dripping with false concern. "Honestly, you can't be too careful these days. All sorts of people on the internet."
Before I could reply, Patrick's message appeared:
"Babe, you probably shared those photos somewhere before. They just used AI to composite them into their own pictures."
"I already warned the poster and told her to delete it. Just ignore it."
He followed up with a screenshot of his private message to the woman: "Hello. These photos appear to be stolen from someone else and constitute a violation of their rights. Please delete them immediately, or we will pursue legal action."
I clicked back to the original post.
Gone.
That was fast.
I stared at my phone, something cold settling in my stomach. Finally, I typed a single word into the family chat: "Okay."
Then I locked my phone and looked up at my driver.
"Evan Brooks. Take me to Phoenix Avenue."
Patrick's explanation made sense. On the surface.
AI was everywhere now. Faking photos wasn't hard.
But I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that I had never posted pictures of those storefronts online.
And I had never, not once, photographed Denise's gold.
