Whenever I noticed something inconvenient, I was tired.
Whenever Cordelia insulted me, I was sensitive.
Whenever Flynn disappeared for hours and came home smelling like a hotel lobby, I was paranoid.
Whenever money moved between accounts without explanation, I was confused.
He never needed to prove I was wrong.
He only needed to teach me to doubt being right.
The pressure began gently.
Flynn suggested renovating Bellweather House.
Then refinancing it.
Then using it as collateral for a hospitality venture he and Cordelia wanted to launch.
I refused.
“The house stays exactly as Grandfather left it.”
Flynn leaned against the kitchen island.
“You understand that’s irrational?”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s an asset.”
“It’s my home.”
“We have a home.”
“It was my first home.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re being sentimental.”
“Yes.”
He blinked.
My answer had surprised him.
I smiled.
“I’m allowed to be sentimental about the place where my family lived.”
