faintest pretense of courtesy. Her tone held that familiar, glossy satisfaction,

rich and impenetrable as fresh lacquer. “The papers are signed, and the new

owners move in next week. I hope you’ve learned your lesson about respecting

your elders, Harper.”

For three full seconds, I said nothing at all.

My name is Harper Sterling, and the house Eleanor was so smugly discussing was

my childhood home. It was a sprawling, Victorian-craftsman hybrid with a

wraparound porch, a breathtaking stained-glass landing window, a deep claw-foot

tub upstairs, and a creaking back staircase that my father, Arthur, swore was

the soul of the architecture. It was the house where I had learned to read by

the fireplace, where I had once hidden under the mahogany dining table during a

thunderstorm while Dad pretended the sky was just rearranging its heavy

furniture.

It was also, according to Eleanor’s latest performance, a house she believed she

had just effortlessly ripped from my hands.

“The house?” I repeated, carefully keeping the dark, bubbling amusement out of

my voice. “You mean Dad’s house?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Harper. You know exactly which house. The one you’ve

been squatting in rent-free since your father passed. Well, that little vacation

ends now. I found cash buyers. A lovely couple from out of state who will

actually appreciate the property and bring it into the twenty-first century.”

I lifted my mug again, letting her voice wash over me as my mind drifted to a

memory from just days after my father’s funeral. It was a quiet, highly

confidential meeting in a downtown high-rise with my father’s attorney, Benjamin

Vance. Eleanor had absolutely no idea about that meeting. She had no idea about

the thick manila folders, the notarized signatures, the irrevocable trusts, and

the iron-clad legal precautions my father had quietly arranged long before she

ever imagined she had him entirely figured out.

She had spent five years underestimating me. It had simply never occurred to her

ego that my father might have been doing exactly the same thing to her.

“That’s interesting,” I said smoothly. “And you’re entirely sure everything is

legal?”

She scoffed. Through the receiver, I could hear her moving—probably pacing the

expensive rugs of her rented luxury condo, probably smiling that sharp,

carnivorous smile she wore when she believed she was about to humiliate someone

publicly.

“Of course it’s legal, you insolent girl,” she snapped. “I am his widow. The

deed was in his name. You may have been his precious, over-coddled daughter, but

I have spousal rights. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before questioning my

authority regarding the remodeling.”

And there it was. The bruised ego. The real reason for her urgency.

Three months earlier, while my father was barely cold in his grave, I had

physically stood in the foyer and stopped Eleanor’s contractors from gutting the

historic features of the house. My father had spent two decades restoring it.

The hand-carved banisters. The original parquet flooring. The stained-glass

panels he had cleaned with a toothbrush, piece by piece, during a blizzard in

’98. Eleanor had wanted to rip it all out. She wanted sleek open shelving, gray

laminate, chrome fixtures, and bright, soulless lighting that would have made a

century-old home feel like an overpriced dermatologist’s waiting room.