My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

“No,” I said, though it sounded less like an answer than a prayer I had already missed the chance to finish.

He kept going, mistaking my silence for weakness. “Prestige Auto Consortium made an excellent offer. Thirty-eight million cash for all twelve locations. We’ve had preliminary meetings. The papers are being drafted.”

We. Papers. Meetings.

I looked from him to Karen and back again. She held my gaze with almost serene confidence, the expression of a woman who believed the unpleasant work of winning was already done.

“You cannot sell Morrison Auto Group,” I said. “That company belongs to me.”

Karen rolled her eyes. “No, Nora. Parts of it belong to you on paper. But functionally? Let’s be honest. You don’t run it anymore.”

That was a lie, but a strategically chosen one. Since Warren’s death I had shifted out of daily operations because grief and a fifty-year habit of partnership had made the first year impossible to bear in the office we built together. But I remained CEO. I signed off on expansions. I reviewed financials. I approved hires. I handled property decisions. More importantly, I still owned the controlling interest.

“Without my signature, there is no sale,” I said.