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"My Brother Sold My Mountain Home For His Betting Ring — The Escrow Officer Knew My Family Trust" The realtor's office occupied the ground floor of a renovated Victorian in downtown Asheville, North Carolina, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood beams designed to make wealthy out-of-state buyers feel like they were investing in authentic mountain charm. Twenty-three people crowded into the main conference room on a Friday afternoon in October—buyers, their lawyers, a mortgage broker, my brother Ryan's realtor, and Ryan himself, sitting at the head of the table like he'd just negotiated the deal of the century. I sat in my car across the street, engine off, watching through the large front windows. Ryan had posted about this meeting on Instagram two days ago: "Big closing day! Dreams becoming reality 🏔️💰" with a photo of champagne glasses and a mountain sunset. Several people had congratulated him. My mother had commented, "So proud of you!" Nobody had mentioned that the mountain home he was selling—a four-bedroom cedar lodge at 6,200 feet elevation with forty acres of forest and views of the Blue Ridge Mountains—belonged to me. Through the window, I watched Ryan shake hands with the buyers, a couple in their fifties who'd apparently been looking for their dream retirement property. The man wore a Patagonia vest. The woman clutched a folder that probably contained mortgage documents and inspection reports. They looked happy, excited, completely unaware they were participating in real estate fraud. My phone was recording audio from inside the office. I'd planted a small Bluetooth microphone in a potted plant near the conference table three hours earlier, during the office's lunch hour when the receptionist was gone. Not legal for court, probably, but useful for understanding exactly what Ryan was claiming. His voice came through clearly: "This property has been in my family for eight years. My father left it to me when he passed. It's been a dream selling it to people who'll actually appreciate the land the way he did." Every word was a lie. Dad had died six years ago, not eight. He'd left the property to me in a family trust, not to Ryan. And Dad had specifically structured the trust to prevent Ryan from accessing it because—as Dad had explained in his final letter to me—"your brother has never met a bet he wouldn't take or a debt he wouldn't run from." The escrow officer sat at the far end of the table, a woman in her sixties with reading glasses and silver hair pulled into a professional bun. Diane Fletcher, according to the placard in front of her. She was reviewing documents, occasionally making notes, saying little. "The purchase price is $950,000," Ryan's realtor announced, a energetic blonde named Tiffany who'd apparently never met a property disclosure she couldn't gloss over. "All cash offer, no contingencies, close in seven days. The buyers are ready to take possession on Monday." The buyers nodded enthusiastically. They'd already mentally moved in, I could tell. Probably picked out where the furniture would go, planned which room would be the guest bedroom, imagined their grandchildren visiting for Christmas. "And the title is clear?" the buyers' attorney asked—a sharp-eyed man in his forties who at least seemed to be doing his job. "Completely clear," Tiffany said. "We've run the title search. No liens, no encumbrances, no issues. Ready for immediate transfer." Diane Fletcher cleared her throat. "Actually, there is an issue." Disclaimer: This content is a fictional story written for entertainment only. All names, characters, and events are products of imagination, and any resemblance to real individuals or situations is coincidental. This story is original content created by our channel. © All rights to this content are strictly reserved. #aita #reddit #redditstories #redditstory #revengestory #revenge