My father stared at his son, then slowly turned his gaze back to me and the folder.

“What do you want, Ava?” my father asked, his voice suddenly very quiet.

“I want my future back,” I said.

My voice did not shake.

I looked at Brandon, who was shivering near the umbrella stand.

Water dripped from his torn jacket, pooling on the polished hardwood floor.

“And I want it now,” I added.

My father did not look at his son.

He kept his cold, grey eyes locked on mine.

“You think you can come into my house and dictate terms to me?” he asked.

“It is not your house, Richard,” Arthur said quietly.

“According to your mother’s true will, this property was to be sold.”

“The proceeds were supposed to liquidate into Ava’s trust.”

My mother let out a sharp, strangled sob.

She rushed over to Brandon, wrapping her manicured hands around his wet arm.

“Brandon, sweetie, what did they say to you?” she whispered.

She completely ignored Arthur and me.

“They said they’ll break my legs, Mom,” Brandon choked out, his teeth chattering.