The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the table.

Outside, the distant sound of seagulls and the low hum of traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway went on as if nothing had changed.

“Vivian,” Grant said, his voice dropping low, trying to find that old, intimate tone he used when he wanted something from me. “We built this together. You can’t let them tear it down.”

“You built your version of it, Grant,” I said.

I picked up my purse from the floor and placed it on my lap.

“I built the actual structures,” I said. “And you tried to erase my name from them.”

“It was just business,” he said, taking a step toward me. “The marketing team said Lila was the right fit for the demographic. It wasn’t personal.”

“Everything is personal when it’s my mother’s name on the gate,” I said.

Grant looked at me, a sudden flicker of realization crossing his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his phone rang again.

This time, the ringtone was different—a sharp, piercing alert reserved for his personal bank.