I felt something harden inside me. I knew, with grim certainty, that Gregory would come. And this time, I would be ready for him.

The penthouse doors burst open. Gregory marched in, flanked by his lawyers, and tossed a folded eviction notice onto the table.

“Pack your bags, old woman. As the eldest son, the estate reverts to me. I’ve filed my claim — this suite belongs to the family now.”

I did not move. Beside me, Mr. Vance opened his briefcase. Evelyn stepped forward from the balcony.

“Sit down, Gregory,” she said quietly.

“I don’t take orders from you.”

I slid the deed across the polished table toward him. “I think you should read this before you say another word.”

Gregory snatched the papers. His eyes raced down the lines, and the color drained from his face.

“This is fake. Father would never —”

“Your father owned this entire facility,” Mr. Vance replied. “His widow is the sole owner now. Your claim is worthless.”

“You manipulated a dying man,” Gregory snapped, pointing straight at me.

“No,” Evelyn said. “I helped him. I signed the transfer myself, in front of witnesses. He knew exactly what you planned to do with the state wing.”

Gregory rounded on his sister, his voice cracking with rage. “You went behind my back.”

“Someone had to,” she answered steadily.

Mr. Vance closed his briefcase with a soft, final click. “There is nothing left for you here.”

Gregory glanced at his lawyers, who shifted awkwardly where they stood. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered.

“I doubt it,” I said.

He turned and stormed out without another word.

Weeks later, I stood at the courtyard window, watching workers repair the crumbling state wing. Warm sunlight finally flooded the rooms where I had once shivered through cold nights.

“Arthur,” I whispered, “your dream is safe now.”

And for the first time in years, I truly felt at home.