“I want a husband who wants to make more money,” she shot back, “who has ambition, who doesn’t act like being content is some kind of virtue.”
“I love teaching, Miranda. I love our daughter. I thought I loved you.”
She flinched. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Then don’t uninvite me from Thanksgiving.” Drew kept his voice steady. “That’s my daughter. I have a right to be there.”
“It’s Mother’s house. Her rules.”
“Then maybe Sophie and I will have Thanksgiving at home together.”
Miranda’s laugh was bitter. “You can’t afford the kind of meal she’s used to.”
“She’s six years old. She doesn’t care if the turkey costs two hundred dollars.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Drew. You don’t understand what she deserves. What I deserve.”
She grabbed her wine and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a decisive click.
Drew stood in the kitchen alone, surrounded by Sophie’s drawings on the refrigerator and the remnants of their spaghetti dinner.
He’d built a good life here. A simple one, maybe, but full of love and meaning.
It had never been enough for Miranda, and now apparently it wasn’t enough for her family either.
He thought about Sophie sleeping upstairs, innocent and trusting. He thought about the way Margaret looked at her sometimes—appraising, calculating—like she was a Turner first and his daughter second.
Drew walked to his office and opened his laptop. He started a new document, titled it notes, and began typing everything he could remember about the Turner family: their business dealings, the conversations he’d overheard, the way Carl’s eyes went cold when someone mentioned environmental regulations or zoning laws.
He didn’t know why he was doing it yet, just that instinct told him he’d need ammunition eventually.
The Turners had declared war.
They just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter 2
The week before Thanksgiving, Drew noticed the changes.
Sophie came home from Margaret’s house with new clothes—expensive dresses with tags he recognized from boutiques in the historic district. When he asked about them, Sophie shrugged.
“Grammy says my clothes from Target are embarrassing.”
Drew felt anger simmer in his gut. “There’s nothing wrong with your clothes, sweetheart.”
“Grammy says people judge you by what you wear. Is that true?”
He knelt to her level. “Some people do, but the people worth knowing don’t care about labels or price tags. They care about who you are inside.”
Sophie considered this, then hugged him tight. “I like my Target clothes. They’re comfy.”
But the next day, Miranda picked her up in a new outfit—a velvet dress with patent leather shoes. When Drew asked about it, Miranda’s response was clipped.
“Mother’s taking her to the country club for lunch. She needs to look presentable.”
“She’s six.”
“Exactly. This is when habits form.”
Drew watched his daughter climb into Miranda’s BMW, uncomfortable in clothes meant for display rather than play.
He thought about calling his lawyer friend, Cody McConnell, who’d handled their house closing years ago. But lawyers cost money, and Drew didn’t have an abundance.
Instead, he went to school and taught his tenth graders about the French aristocracy before the revolution—about excess and inequality, about the breaking point when ordinary people decided enough was enough.
One student, a sharp kid named Marcus, raised his hand. “Mr. Leon, do you think revolutions still happen today?”
“Different kinds,” Drew said. “Not always violent. Sometimes revolution is just one person deciding not to accept injustice anymore.”
“Like Rosa Parks,” Marcus said.
“Exactly like Rosa Parks.”
After school, Drew drove to the Turner & Associates headquarters downtown, a gleaming tower of steel and glass. He’d never visited Carl’s office before. Never had reason to.
The receptionist, a young woman with a headset, looked up with practiced politeness. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Carl Turner.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But tell him Drew Leon is here about his granddaughter.”
Her expression shifted slightly. She hesitated, then spoke into her headset. A minute later, she pointed to the elevators.
“Twentieth floor. His assistant will meet you.”
The twentieth floor was all marble and mahogany. Carl’s assistant, an efficient-looking woman named Joan Elliott, led Drew to a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Carl sat behind a desk the size of Drew’s kitchen table, silver-haired and imposing in a navy suit that probably cost more than Drew’s monthly salary.
He didn’t stand.
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