fresh and the memories were vivid. The garden had always been my sanctuary, a place where my father and I had spent countless hours talking about everything and nothing. It felt reassuring to stand among the roses while the wind whispered through the leaves, promising change.
By evening, I received a call from Eleanor. The anger in her voice was barely contained, each word sharper than the last.
“What have you done, Harper?” she demanded, skipping any semblance of pleasantries.
“Just ensuring the right thing happens, Eleanor,” I replied calmly, leaning against the weathered wooden bench my father built years ago. “The buyers deserved to know the truth.”
“You’re going to regret this,” she snapped. “I still have control over everything else.”
“Do you?” I asked, letting the question hang in the air like the scent of blooming flowers. “Or do you only think you do?”
