“What’s going on?” I asked, tightening my grip on the strap of my guitar case.
Before Cheryl could answer, a tall, stern-looking man in a tailored suit stepped into the doorway behind her. He adjusted his glasses and looked from Cheryl—who suddenly seemed terrified—to me.
“Miss Morison?” he asked calmly. “I’m Arthur Sterling, senior partner at your father’s law firm. We’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. Unfortunately, it appears your stepmother… misplaced your contact information.”
Cheryl burst into a high, nervous laugh and grabbed my arm with clammy fingers.
“Oh Arthur, don’t be ridiculous!” she said quickly. “She just went camping with friends to grieve. I was only welcoming her home. We’re very close, aren’t we, honey?”
Her nails dug sharply into my skin as she squeezed my arm—a silent warning flashing in her eyes.
I pulled away.
“I don’t know who you are,” I told the lawyer, “but I didn’t go camping. She threw me out two days ago. She said I wasn’t family anymore.”
The color drained from Cheryl’s face instantly.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Mr. Sterling nodded slowly, his expression hardening. He opened the leather folder in his hands.
“That is exactly what your father feared might happen,” he said quietly.
Then he turned his cold gaze toward Cheryl.
“As stated in the Protection Clause of your late husband’s will: ‘Should my daughter be removed from the family home or denied access to her inheritance by my spouse, the spouse’s share of the estate shall be immediately revoked and transferred entirely to my daughter.’”
Cheryl’s knees buckled beneath her.
“No… no, you can’t do that!” she cried, her voice cracking. “This is a misunderstanding! I was grieving! I didn’t mean it!”
“The clause is absolute,” Sterling replied, snapping the folder shut.
He gestured toward the security guards waiting beside the black SUVs in the driveway.
“The house, the vehicles, and all financial accounts now belong solely to Miss Morison,” he continued firmly. “You have thirty minutes to pack a bag and leave the property, Cheryl. Otherwise, the police will escort you out.”
Cheryl’s scream echoed through the house as the guards stepped onto the porch.
But I didn’t watch.
I walked past her—past the fake tears, the lies, and the greed—and stepped back into my father’s home.
I set my guitar down in the hallway.
For the first time in five years, the air inside felt clear.
And I was finally home.
