My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

The man who stepped out wore a navy jacket with Donnelly Lock & Key stitched across his chest. Clipboard in hand, he looked toward the porch—

And that’s when Diana realized.

Her expression didn’t just shift.

It collapsed.

Confidence drained. Color faded. Control slipped. What remained was something rawer—fear, barely hidden beneath calculation.

At the same moment, Attorney Evelyn Porter stepped out of her car, composed as ever, a leather folder tucked neatly under her arm.

“Good morning,” she said.

Diana straightened. “Who are you?”

“I’m Evelyn Porter, legal counsel for Rebecca Hale,” she replied calmly. “And unless the law changed overnight, you’re currently standing on property held in trust for my client.”

Silence.

Heavy. Immediate.

Diana let out a sharp laugh. “That’s ridiculous. This house belongs to my husband.”

Evelyn opened the folder.

“No. It doesn’t.”

She didn’t need to raise her voice. The certainty in her tone silenced everything else—the wind, the distant surf, even the tension in the air.

The officer stepped forward. “Ma’am, you reported a trespassing situation?”

“She’s been harassing us for years,” Diana snapped, pointing at me.