He just shoved the door open.
“Hannah, there you are. You look terrible.”
“I’m sick, Andrew,”
I repeated, clutching my robe tightly.
“Well, this will make you feel better or worse. Depends how you look at it,”
he said with a little laugh.
He motioned to the stranger.
“This is Mr. Peters. He’s our legal counsel. Mom and I have been talking and we’ve decided this whole arrangement just isn’t fair.”
My mother nodded, avoiding my eyes.
“It’s true, dear. The property is worth so much. It’s not right for one child to have it all.”
I stared at them.
The fever, the betrayal, and the sheer audacity mixed into a toxic, dizzying cocktail in my head.
They had abandoned this place.
They had abandoned me when I was drowning in debt trying to save it.
And now they were here with a fake lawyer and a smile.
The betrayal was worse than the diagnosis itself.
The immediate aftermath was a blur of mismatched, aggressive energy.
My head was pounding, but their voices were sharp—cutting through the haze of my fever.
Mr. Peters stood stiffly in my entryway, eyes darting around the restored foyer with a greedy, appraising look that made my skin crawl.
Andrew, on the other hand, was all manic energy—pacing the antique hardwood floors I had personally refinished, hands gesturing wildly.
“You’ve done some work,”
Andrew commented, tapping a hand on the solid mahogany newel post.
“Good, good. That’ll save us some trouble.”
“Us?”
I managed to croak, leaning against the doorframe for support.
My whole body felt weak, but a new cold anger was starting to build beneath the illness.
“Yes, us, Hannah,”
my mother said, finally looking at me.
Her expression wasn’t concern.
It was impatient resolve.
It was the same look she got when she tried to return an item without a receipt.
“Andrew has a new business venture—a big one—and he needs capital. This house, this land…it’s the capital.”
“So you’re just going to take it?”
I asked, my voice small.
“Don’t be dramatic,”
Andrew snapped.
“We’re not taking it. We’re reallocating it. Mr. Peters has the papers.”
The man in the cheap suit stepped forward and clicked open his briefcase.
He pulled out a sheath of papers with a theatrical flourish.
“Miss Gable,”
he said, his voice a gravelly baritone that sounded rehearsed,
“we have here a motion to contest the probate ruling based on undue influence and, uh… unequal distribution of familial assets.”
My mind—foggy, but not stupid—snagged on the words.
As an estate appraiser, I knew legal jargon.
Undue influence. Unequal distribution.
The probate was closed six months ago.
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