PART 2:
You do not raise your voice.
That is the first thing Vivian fails to understand.
She expects the girl who left six years ago. The girl who cried in the guesthouse after her mother died. The girl who packed one suitcase and disappeared to law school because staying in that mansion meant watching a stranger slowly take her mother’s place at the dinner table.
But you are not that girl anymore.
You are standing in the marble foyer of your father’s estate outside Greenwich, Connecticut, with court filings in your bag, three attorneys on standby, a private investigator waiting in a black SUV at the gate, and enough evidence in your phone to turn Vivian’s smile into a legal exhibit.
Your father’s breathing is shallow beside you.
Richard Hale once built half the commercial skyline between Stamford and New Haven. He could read construction bids like other men read menus. He could walk onto a job site and know, from the sound alone, whether a crew was wasting time or saving a building.
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