I’d negotiated hostile takeovers with men who smiled while they tried to gut my company. Brandon’s voice carried that same sweet poison.
I set my champagne down on the deck railing with deliberate care.
“All right,” I told him. “Come tomorrow.”
He paused, thrown off by the lack of resistance. “Good,” he said, then hurried on. “We’ll need you out of the master by—”
“I didn’t say yes to your plan,” I corrected calmly. “I said come tomorrow.”
I hung up before he could respond, and for a moment I just stood there, listening to the ocean and the distant cry of seabirds.
The beauty should’ve been healing. Instead, my mind replayed Brandon’s words with cruel clarity.
Assisted living. Too much responsibility. Someone your age.
He thought he’d cornered me. He thought I was an older woman with too much house and too much heart, easy to guilt, easy to scare.
What Brandon didn’t know—what I learned in thirty years of business—is that the best victories come from letting your opponent think they’ve already won.
I walked back inside my quiet house, past the Italian marble floors, past the wide staircase, past the master suite that smelled like fresh linen and new beginnings.