“Do not bring Brielle into this,” Dorian snapped, his composure slipping. “The buyers are ready. If we do not submit the signed waiver by tomorrow afternoon, the deal falls through.”

“Good,” I said. “Let it fall through.”

“Maren, listen to me,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a low, desperate hiss. “They will sue us. They will tie us up in court for years, and we will lose everything. Your mother will lose her house.”

“My mother chose her side when she let you sign her name,” I said.

“Please, Maren,” he said. “Just sign the paper. I will transfer fifty thousand dollars to your account the second the escrow closes. Consider it your share.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, feeling the dry Texas heat radiating through the window pane behind me.

“My father built that cabin with his own hands,” I said. “It is not for sale.”

“It is a rotting pile of wood in the middle of nowhere!” Dorian shouted.

“Then you should have no trouble leaving it,” I said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.