She adjusted her glasses, her face growing serious.

“He will not just fight the legal battle,” she said. “He will try to starve you out.”

“I have my own savings,” I said. “A personal account my mother left me before she passed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eleanor replied. “Elias has deep connections at every major financial institution in the northeast. If he puts enough pressure on the board, they can tie up your accounts under the guise of an audit.”

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.

“And your career,” she continued. “You have a degree in art history. You wanted to curate.”

“I have interviews lined up next week,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Two galleries in Boston, one at the museum.”

Eleanor sighed, a soft, dry sound.

“Elias knows the donors of those galleries,” she said. “He doesn’t even have to call them himself. His public relations firm will make sure your name is toxic.”

“I can find work elsewhere,” I said. “I will work in a local diner if I have to.”