She kept another with the attorney.
The third lived in a password-protected folder on her phone.
She did not tell her parents.
She wanted to see whether they would ask her about her life before trying to strip it down for parts.
They did not.
Vivien arrived at 9:16 a.m. the morning of Garrett’s email in her silver Mercedes, wearing a cream suit too sharp for a gravel driveway.
She looked past Sienna at the lavender fields.
Her eyes moved like she was already counting.
“Garrett sent the email?” she asked.
Sienna stood on the porch with the printed message folded in her hand.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Vivien said. “We have legal counsel ready to revoke your ownership rights if you resist. You have three days to pack up.”
The old Sienna would have explained.
