“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister said with a sneer, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light as she adjusted the Valdderee heels on her feet. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but couldn’t you at least have made an effort?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. I had designed this “cheap” dress myself. I owned the label on her shoes. I owned the boutique we were standing in. And one hour earlier, I had personally approved the cancellation of her modeling contract. Then my brother’s bank made the news…

“Yes,” I said, smiling pleasantly. “You do. Federal investigation, possible prison time, financial ruin, social disgrace. Very real problems indeed.”

“Which is why we need to liquidate everything possible,” Dad continued, ignoring the tension, “including Mom’s boutique. I found a buyer willing to pay cash. Quick closing. It won’t solve everything, but it’s a start.”

There it was.

The boutique I’d kept running. The space I’d honored. The foundation of everything I’d built—and they wanted to sell it for scrap.

“No.”

The word dropped into silence.

“Elise, be reasonable,” Rachel pleaded. “It’s just a building. Mom’s gone. Keeping it won’t bring her back.”

“The boutique stays.”

Blake slammed his laptop shut.

“You don’t get to make that decision. We all inherited equally. Three against one.”

“Actually,” I said, pulling out the leather portfolio Elysia had prepared, “that’s not accurate. Mom left the boutique to me alone.”

I slid the documents onto the coffee table.

“She also left me power of attorney over any family business decisions. It’s all here—properly filed.”

I watched their faces change as they read.

“She didn’t trust you,” I continued conversationally. “Isn’t that interesting? Even then, she knew you’d try to sell off her legacy the moment opportunity arose.”

“This is fake,” Blake snarled. “You forged these.”

“Feel free to have them authenticated,” I said. “May I suggest Martindale and Associates? Oh—wait. They were your bank’s law firm, currently under investigation for fraud. Perhaps someone else.”

Dad picked up the papers with shaking hands.

“This gives you control of her entire estate,” he said, voice thin, “not just the boutique.”

“Yes,” I said. “Including the investment account you didn’t know existed. The one she built by being careful with money while you were all being careless. The one currently worth…” I pretended to think. “Well. Enough to matter.”

“How much?” Rachel whispered.

“More than the quick cash you’d get from selling the boutique. Less than what you need to solve your problems.”

They exchanged glances, calculations running behind their eyes.

How much could they extract from me? How much guilt could they leverage?

“There’s something else you should know,” I said, standing.