But his hand rested on my shoulder—and that said more than words ever could.

Two weeks later, my mother called. Three times.

I ignored all of them.

On the fourth call, curiosity won.

“You should have told me,” she snapped.

“Told you what?” I asked.

“That you’re the executor. That Dad changed everything. That you’re suddenly in charge of all of us.”

I exhaled. “I didn’t think you’d care so much about something you said ‘didn’t matter.’ You told me it was just a car.”

“This has nothing to do with the car,” she shot back.

“No,” I said evenly. “It’s about control. And you don’t have it anymore.”

Silence followed.

Then, bitterly, “He’s old. He’s not thinking straight.”

“You don’t get to say that just because he didn’t choose you.”

The line went dead.

A week later, Lucy appeared at my apartment. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, hair thrown into a careless bun. She stood in the doorway for a long moment before speaking.

“You turned him against us.”

I stared at her. “You took something that didn’t belong to you.”

“It was just a car, Natalie.”