The neighbors chattered endlessly, their gossip twisting the story until they’d concluded that Sandra had scammed gifts from seven or eight different suitors, and now the men were here to get their things back after discovering her deception.
When Mrs. Edith Woods heard their vicious rumors, she roared, “What nonsense are you all spouting! My daughter never took anything from those men!”
“Oh, really? If your daughter didn’t take their things, why are they here demanding them back now?”
“Exactly! They’re right at your doorstep. Who’s going to believe you at this point?”
Furious, Mrs. Woods pointed a trembling finger at them, sputtering incoherently for a moment before she finally gathered her voice and shrieked, “It’s Mr. Rosenberg! These men are here to take back the gifts Mr. Rosenberg gave my daughter!”
“What? Mr. Rosenberg?”
“You mean Lionel Rosenberg?”
The neighbors exchanged disbelieving glances.
“That can’t be right. We’re talking about Mr. Rosenberg. His family is loaded. Why would he take back gifts?”
“Yeah, I mean, some guys might go Dutch after a breakup, but this is Mr. Rosenberg we’re talking about. Mrs. Woods, you can’t just throw his name around like that. If he hears you’re spreading lies, that’s slander!”
Mrs. Woods thought about how Sandra had thrown herself at him for years, only for him to turn around and marry Hannah. And while he had continued to help the Woods family, now that they were in real trouble, a month had passed and he hadn't lifted a finger.
All those years my daughter wasted on him, it was all for nothing!
And now he had the audacity to send people to take back the things he gave her.
Her anger boiling over, Mrs. Woods decided she was done protecting his reputation and started screaming.
“Men… you can never rely on men. My daughter supported him when he was just a student, used her connections to help him start his business, even gave him the startup capital! And now that he's made it big and we've fallen on hard times… oh, my poor, unfortunate daughter!”
Paparazzi, drawn by the scent of scandal, were already hiding nearby, snapping photos.
The items were taken in the morning; the story was trending online by noon.
Lionel had just finished a meeting when Owen rushed toward him, nearly colliding with someone in his haste.
“What's with the rush? Compose yourself.”
“Mr. Rosenberg, it’s bad. Something terrible has happened!”

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