He Moved His First Love Into My Villa

Lucas reached my car before I could pull out of the Seabrook driveway and struck his palm against the driver's-side window.

"Cancel the sale."

I lowered the glass halfway. "Move. I have a meeting."

"You called Damon?" His face was tight with disbelief. "You know exactly what he'll do with this. He's wanted a foothold on this side of the coast for years. You're handing my brother a weapon because you're angry at me."

"Damon didn't give Amelia my key. You did."

I reached across the passenger seat for the folder containing my trust documents and held the first page against the window.

"Seabrook is not a Cross family asset. My mother's trust paid for it before our wedding. Your name has never been on the title."

Lucas scanned the page and shifted tactics almost immediately.

"Fine. I'll match his offer. Cash. Today." He leaned closer. "Put the house into Henry's trust. It stays in the family, and you get the same money."

"No."

"Sophie, this is our son's summer home."

"Then you should have remembered his mother owns it before you promised it to someone else."

I started the engine.

"Tell Amelia not to finish unpacking," I added. "The movers are coming for my piano at noon."

"You can't throw her into the street."

"She received a seven-figure divorce settlement. She can afford a hotel."

I drove away before he could turn concern for Amelia into another lecture about my character.

Two hours later, my phone buzzed on my office desk.

"Why did the grocery account stop working?" Lucas demanded.

I kept one hand on my mouse as I adjusted the lighting plan for a boutique hotel project. "Because I canceled the recurring Seabrook orders."

"The housekeeper called too. And the landscaper."

"The security and insurance stay active. Everything else was charged to my card."

"Amelia's sister is coming for lunch. The refrigerator delivery was rejected."

"Then order groceries yourself."

He went silent.

For ten years, that silence had usually made me fill the gap. I would solve the problem, explain the solution, and make sure nobody felt inconvenienced by the fact that Lucas had failed to plan.

This time I waited.

"You're being vindictive," he said at last.

"No. I'm giving you the bill for the life you decided to organize without me."

I ended the call.

Henry came home from school at three and dropped his backpack on the kitchen island.

"Look what I made."

He pulled out a sheet of graph paper and smoothed it flat. It was a floor plan of Seabrook Villa, drawn in blue pencil. Stick figures occupied nearly every room.

Dad's Room filled the master suite.

Amelia's Room sat next door.

Henry's Room had a balcony and a crooked telescope.

Beside the smallest bedroom, Henry had written: Mom can visit.

I stared at the words until the letters blurred.

"Who told you I was visiting?"

Henry's smile faded. "Dad said Aunt Amelia needs to stay a long time because reporters bother her. He said you work a lot anyway."

"And where did he say I would sleep?"

Henry pointed to the little guest room. "There. But only when you're not busy."

I sat beside him instead of standing over the drawing.

"Henry, do you know who owns Seabrook?"

He shook his head.

"I do. Grandma left me money after she died, and I bought that house before Dad and I got married."

His eyebrows pulled together. "But Dad said married people share everything."

"Married people can share things. They still have to ask before giving something important away."

He studied the paper as if the walls he had drawn had shifted under his pencil.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. You didn't make the decision."

The next day, the moving truck arrived at Seabrook at noon.

Amelia was waiting in the study, arms folded over a pale sweater. "This is unnecessary, Sophie. The piano is huge. If you leave it, I'll make sure nobody touches it."

"It has already been touched."

I handed the foreman my property authorization. "The piano and the three boxes in storage go to the city."

Amelia moved in front of the piano. "Can you give me a few days? My divorce has been public enough. Having movers show up makes it look like I'm being thrown out."

"You're not being thrown out today. I'm taking my belongings."

She pulled out her phone.

Ten minutes later, Lucas stormed through the front door without his jacket.

"Stop," he ordered the movers. "Nobody moves that piano until we settle this."

The foreman looked at me.

"Keep going," I said.

Lucas stepped into my path. "If you sell this house to Damon, Henry and I are checking into a hotel tonight. I'm serious."

He waited for the threat to land.

A year ago, it might have worked. I would have pictured Henry in an unfamiliar room, Lucas telling him I had driven them away, and I would have surrendered just to keep my son comfortable.

Instead I asked, "What exactly are you planning to pack?"

Lucas stared at me.

The movers carried the piano between us.

Henry appeared at the top of the stairs with his backpack still on. He looked from Lucas to me, then at the piano inching toward the door. "Is Grandma's piano leaving because I picked the wrong room?" he asked. I crossed the foyer and crouched beside him. "No. It is leaving because it belongs with me." Lucas said nothing, and for once I did not translate his silence into an excuse.

I sent it to the small commercial loft I had leased for my design work, not to storage. When the movers rolled it beneath the tall windows, the room finally felt like mine.

That evening, Damon's legal team confirmed the inspection date and title review. He had refused Lucas's calls and instructed everyone to communicate through the transaction file.

At eight, Lucas texted me.

Henry and I are at the Plaza. When you calm down, we'll come home.

I replied: You have every right to use the city apartment. The Seabrook sale continues.

Thirty seconds later, Henry sent me a photograph from his tablet.

He had erased Mom can visit from his floor plan so hard the paper had nearly torn.

Under the smudged gray patch, he had written a new sentence.

Dad says you're selling our summer.