“You can’t do that!” Lily burst out.
I looked at her again. “Pretty sure I can.”
“This is our summer home,” she said, voice cracking on the word our. “We’ve been coming here for years. You can’t just kick us out. That’s—”
“I’m not kicking anyone out,” I said, surprising us both. “Contrary to your mother’s narrative, I don’t actually enjoy creating drama.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, but there was less conviction in it now.
“This house has always been a family home,” I continued. “But it’s my family’s legacy—and I mean Mom’s family. My grandparents. Her. Me. I’m not going to let anyone erase that. If you want to come here in the future, you can. But it will be as guests. Not as people trying to claim ownership.”
It wasn’t magnanimous. It didn’t erase the hurt. But it felt… right.
Victoria stormed past us a few minutes later, heels digging into the shells as she stalked to her Mercedes. She yanked the door open, took one last look at the house—as if memorizing it in case she never saw it again—and then slammed herself inside.
The car tore out of the driveway, shells flying, the NO TRESPASSING sign rattling in her wake.