"My mom slid a listing across the table. “We're selling. You have 60 days to leave.” My sister hit record: “Finally. Good luck, loser.” I drove to the lawyer with the envelope Grandma left me. He read one line... and locked the door. “Ms. Somers,” he said: “You need to sit down.”

By two o'clock that afternoon, the rain had stopped, giving way to a pale, washed-out autumn sun that cast long, golden shadows across the Blue Ridge foothills.

I sat in the passenger seat of Arthur Finley’s black Lincoln Continental as we wound up the gravel mountain road toward the farm. Behind us followed a marked county cruiser driven by Sheriff Jack Hawkins—a silver-templed, broad-shouldered man who had gone to high school with Nana Evelyn and had zero tolerance for Beatrice’s theatrics.

As we rounded the final curve past the overgrown apple orchard, my stomach clenched.

The front meadow, where Nana’s prize goats used to graze, was lined with six luxury SUVs and a Mercedes sedan. At the foot of the driveway stood a massive, newly hammered wooden sign painted in obnoxious turquoise and gold:

**BLUE RIDGE REALTY — EXCLUSIVE PRIVATE OPEN HOUSE & PREVIEW**

*Prime Mountain Acreage — Future Development Opportunity!*

*Listing Agent: Todd Myers*

"Look at that," Arthur murmured, his hands steady on the steering wheel. "Todd couldn't even wait for the weekend. He called in his private network of pocket buyers the minute he filed the listing."

We pulled into the gravel drive, our tires crunching loudly.

The front lawn looked like an upscale garden party staged for an infomercial. Beatrice had set up a white canopy tent on the lawn. She was circulating among several men in tailored fleece vests and Italian loafers, holding a flute of cheap prosecco and laughing with theatrical, high-society charm.

Near the stone steps of the front porch, Presley was perched on the railing. She was wearing a beige cashmere sweater, holding her phone on a gimbal, and broadcasting live.

"Hey guys, welcome back to my stream!" Presley was cooing into her phone, her voice carrying across the lawn. "So this is the rustic family property before our massive lifestyle pivot! As you can see, the farmhouse has so much *character*, but honestly, it’s giving obsolete pioneer chic. We're literally closing with a private cash investor today, and next week I’m signing the lease on the penthouse in downtown Asheville! Drop a heart in the chat if you want to see my luxury packing haul!"

Sheriff Hawkins stepped out of his cruiser first, his campaign hat pulled low, his hand resting casually on his duty belt. Arthur and I stepped out of the Lincoln.

The moment Beatrice caught sight of me, her smile evaporated. Her jaw tightened, the lines around her mouth deepening with fury. She set her champagne glass on a patio table and marched across the grass toward us, her heels sinking into the damp earth.

"Bridget! What are you doing back here?" Beatrice hissed under her breath, trying to keep her voice down so the prospective investors wouldn't overhear. "I told you to clear out! And why on earth did you bring Arthur Finley and the Sheriff? Did you get into another accident with that junk car of yours?"

Todd Myers, a slick forty-year-old man with heavily gelled hair, wearing a navy blazer and driving moccasins, jogged over from the canopy tent, checking his gold watch.

"Is there an issue here, Beatrice?" Todd asked, eyeing Sheriff Hawkins nervously. "Arthur, what's going on? We’re holding a private client preview. If this is about the boundary line survey along the western ridge, we can settle that on Monday."

Arthur Finley didn't flinch. He drew himself up to his full height, looming over Todd like a mountain oak.

"There is no boundary line dispute, Todd," Arthur announced in a clear, resonant voice that silenced every conversation on the lawn. "There is, however, the small matter of unauthorized commercial trespass, fraudulent conveyance of unowned real property, and criminal misrepresentation."

Todd blinked, turning pale. "What are you talking about? Beatrice is Evelyn’s sole heir. She signed the listing contract this morning."

Presley hopped off the porch railing, keeping her camera pointed squarely at my face. "Oh my god, Bridget, are you seriously trying to embarrass us in front of legitimate business people? Stop acting like a bitter child just because you have to move into an apartment. You're ruining my livestream!"

"Presley, shut that phone off," Sheriff Hawkins ordered, his voice sharp as a bullwhip.

"I have a constitutional right to film in public, Sheriff!" Presley snapped back, her influencer mask slipping to reveal her vicious spite. "This is our house!"