Chapter 2

Linda had been dismantling my life since I was twelve years old.

She married my father, Richard Pearce, exactly five months after my mother died of cancer. At the wedding, she'd hugged me in front of all the guests and said, "I'll never try to replace your mom, sweetheart. I just want to love you."

That night, she moved all of my mother's photos into the attic.

By the end of the first month, Mom's clothes were donated, her garden was paved over for a patio, and her piano—the one she used to play for me every evening—was sold.

When I cried, Dad told me I was being dramatic.

"Linda's trying to make this house feel like a fresh start for all of us. Stop making her feel unwelcome."

A fresh start. That's what he called erasing every trace of my mother's existence.

When I was fourteen, Linda gave birth to my half-sister, Harper. From that moment on, I became invisible.

Harper got piano lessons, ballet classes, and a private tutor. I got hand-me-downs from Linda's niece and a lecture about how money doesn't grow on trees every time I asked for school supplies.

When I was sixteen, I found my mother's will.

Mom had left me everything—her jewelry, her savings account with $200,000, and a trust fund that would mature when I turned twenty-one. The will explicitly stated that none of it was to be touched by my father or any subsequent spouse.

I confronted Dad that same night.

He went pale. Then he got angry.

"Where did you find that? You had no right to go through my things!"

"It's Mom's will. It's about MY inheritance."

Linda appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Richard, what's going on?"

Dad shoved the document into a drawer. "Nothing. Chloe's throwing another tantrum."

"The money's gone, isn't it?" My voice was barely a whisper. "You already spent it."

Silence.

Linda broke it with a sigh. "Chloe, your father used that money to pay for this house—the house you live in rent-free. The food you eat. Your school tuition. You should be thanking him."

"Mom left that money for ME!"

"And your father used it to raise you. That's what parents do. Or would you rather have been homeless?"

She said it so reasonably, so calmly, that even I almost believed her.

Almost.

I ran away that night. I made it three blocks before the police brought me back. Dad grounded me for a month, and Linda told the neighbors I'd been "going through a rebellious phase."

At eighteen, I left for good. No inheritance. No savings. No family.

For four years, I worked double shifts—waitressing by day, cleaning offices at night. Every spare cent went into building my coffee shop.

And now, Linda was about to bulldoze it into rubble.

Standing in my shop, watching the contractors tape off the entrance, I pulled out my phone and called the only lawyer I could afford—a legal aid attorney named Diane.

"They can't do this without proper notice," Diane said after I explained the situation.

"Linda says my thirty days expired yesterday."

"Did you receive written notice thirty days ago?"

I froze. "No. I never received anything."

"Then the termination is invalid. Don't let them touch a single brick. I'm on my way."

I hung up, a tiny spark of hope flickering in my chest.

But when I turned around, I saw Linda handing an envelope to the lead contractor.

He opened it, glanced at the contents, and nodded.

Then he swung his sledgehammer straight into my front counter.