Driving away from the estate that night, my body ached—but my resolve burned stronger. Sierra thought I was weak. She forgot who built that home.
At my townhouse, I opened the Estate Trust binder I’d spent years perfecting. Every detail proved the truth: the property was still mine. My lawyer moved quickly, and within days, Sierra was served with an eviction notice.
I waited in silence, patient and certain. A week later, I returned. The estate was empty. Peace filled every room once more.
Sierra had mistaken age for weakness. But I hadn’t just reclaimed my home—I’d reclaimed my power.
“This is mine,” I whispered. “Always has been. Always will be.”
