Chapter 3

"STOP!"

I threw myself between the contractor and what was left of my counter. Shattered wood and broken ceramic from my handmade mugs littered the floor.

The contractor hesitated, but Linda's voice cut through the chaos.

"Keep going. I have a permit, and she's trespassing on my property."

"I am NOT trespassing! I have a lease!" I held up the document with shaking hands.

The contractor looked at Linda, then at me, then shrugged. "Ma'am, I just do what the property owner says. Take it up with the courts."

He raised the sledgehammer again.

"If you swing that hammer one more time, you'll be named in my lawsuit."

Everyone turned. Diane stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, looking like she'd sprinted the entire way.

She walked straight up to the contractor and placed her business card on what remained of my counter. "I'm Ms. Pearce's attorney. Your client failed to provide proper written notice of lease termination. Any further damage to this property constitutes illegal destruction and will be prosecuted."

The contractor lowered his sledgehammer and turned to Linda. "Lady, you told me this was all cleared."

Linda's composure cracked—just for a second. Then the mask was back.

"This is ridiculous. My stepdaughter is manipulating the situation as usual." She turned to the gathered crowd. "You see what I deal with? I try to develop my own property, and she causes a scene."

But the crowd had seen the sledgehammer hit my counter. They'd watched me jump in front of it.

An older man—Mr. Torres, one of my morning regulars—stepped forward. "I saw the whole thing. She didn't receive any notice. I'm here every day, and no one delivered anything."

Another regular nodded. "Same. I've been coming here for two years. This girl works harder than anyone I know."

Linda's smile tightened. She wasn't used to losing her audience.

Diane placed a hand on my arm. "Chloe, I need you to document everything. Photograph the damage. Get statements from witnesses. We're filing an emergency injunction today."

I nodded, pulling out my phone. My hands were still trembling, but I forced myself to take clear photos—the smashed counter, the broken mugs, the sledgehammer marks.

Each photo felt like evidence of something bigger than property damage. It was proof of everything Linda had taken from me, captured in splintered wood and shattered glass.

Linda watched me with narrowed eyes. Then she leaned in close, that same poisonous whisper.

"You think a little legal aid lawyer scares me? Your father's firm has twelve attorneys on retainer. You can't win this, Chloe. You never could."

She straightened up and addressed the contractors. "Pack up for today. We'll be back."

As she walked away, she paused at the door and looked over her shoulder.

"Oh, and Chloe? You might want to check on your little bank account. I hear the IRS has been cracking down on unreported income from small businesses."

My blood ran cold.

Diane grabbed my arm. "What did she just say?"

"She's going to report me to the IRS." I could barely get the words out. "I've reported every penny, but an audit alone could shut me down for months."

Diane's jaw tightened. "We need to get ahead of this. Do you have a good accountant?"

"I do my own books. I can't afford—"

"Chloe." Diane cut me off gently. "I need you to hear me. This woman isn't just trying to take your shop. She's trying to take everything. We need help."

I stared at the wreckage of my counter—the counter I'd built with my own hands, sanded and stained on my only day off, three years ago.

I thought about my mother's will. My stolen inheritance. The life Linda had systematically dismantled piece by piece.

And then my phone buzzed.

An unknown number. A text message.

"Chloe Pearce? My name is Eleanor Ashford. I was your mother's college roommate. I have something that belongs to you. It's time we talked."