“A simple deed of waiver of rights,” Eleanor said. “We framed it as a way to protect the family legacy.”
Natalie laughed. “Please. She’ll sign. Isadora gives in the moment someone raises their voice.”
The house they wanted wasn't just a property. It was the Victorian house on Beacon Hill where my grandmother taught me that words have power. It was the nook by the window where I wrote my first story, and it was proof that a woman in our family had believed in me before I knew how much I would need it. Inside the suite, my mother carried on.
Smith Developments was sinking after a failed waterfront project. Natalie was buried under debt she'd hidden behind designer clothes and corporate dinners. Her grandmother's house had become her escape plan, and I was the obstacle they planned to shame in front of the whole family at Saturday's gathering.
