On the screen, Nolan was pressing buttons on the keypad as if stubbornness might unlock what ownership could not. Audrey was filming with her phone, probably preparing some tearful post about family, betrayal, and how difficult rich people could make themselves look inconvenienced. Cynthia stood beside the trucks, pointing at my house with the calm authority of a woman assigning rooms in a hotel she had not booked.
Then a text came from a number I had deleted months ago but still recognized.
Open the gate, Claire. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Mom only wants the guest suite while things settle.
It was Preston.
