Graham stood up slowly, his knees locking. “You? You own Bluebird?”

“I bought the deed two years ago when your mother tried to use it as collateral for your failed development in Frisco,” I said.

“That’s a lie,” Gloria hissed, her voice shaking. “You don’t have that kind of money. Your father was a schoolteacher.”

“My father was,” I said. “But I have spent the last ten years building a commercial portfolio under five different shell corporations.”

I looked at Graham, whose face had gone entirely gray.

“The office building you were locked out of yesterday?” I asked. “I bought the note on that three months ago. I am your landlord, Graham.”

He fell back onto the sofa as if he had been struck in the chest.

“You did this?” he whispered. “You ruined me?”

“You ruined yourself,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “You spent money you didn’t have to maintain an image your mother created for you.”

“Jocelyn, please,” Graham said, reaching out a hand toward me, his fingers trembling. “We can talk about this. We have children.”