She didn’t knock.
She never did—but this time, she didn’t even pretend.
The front door slammed open before I had a chance to set my purse down, her voice cutting through the house like she owned every inch of it.
“Where’s the money from your mother’s apartment sale?”
I froze, still holding the closing documents in my hand, my mind struggling to catch up with the moment. I had just come back from the bank. Everything had finally been finalized. Seven million dollars.
Seven million tied to memories. To late-night calls. To hospital visits. To the woman who raised me, who built everything she had from nothing.
And somehow, before I even sat down, they had already decided what to do with it.
“Excuse me?” I said, steady but cold.
Ethan came down the stairs, already wearing that careful expression—the one he used when he knew he was about to say something he couldn’t take back.
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