Gloria Vance’s office smelled of expensive leather, old paper, and fresh espresso.

She sat behind a wide desk of dark mahogany, her silver hair styled in a sharp, chin-length bob.

She adjusted her reading glasses and stared at the deed of my father’s land, then at the original construction permits for the house.

“Your father was a very smart man, Alexandra,” Gloria said, tapping her manicured finger on the deed.

“He kept this land locked tight in a separate property trust.”

“Richard’s name isn’t on it?” I asked, leaning forward.

“Not at all,” Gloria replied.

“But Richard paid for the construction of the house during the marriage,” I noted, my heart beating faster. “He thinks that gives him the right to force me out.”

Gloria smiled, a cold, pragmatic tilt of her lips.

“He paid for a modular structure,” she said, sliding a copy of the building specifications toward me.

“A prefabricated, steel-frame home that sits on a concrete pier foundation.”

She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of black coffee.