Just sign the papers and disappear, Eleanor. The bakery’s mine now — Dad would’ve

Tyler smirked and tossed the will at me. “Read it and weep, sis. Page four. Sole heir to Whitfield Bakery LLC — that’s me.” Bree zoomed in on my face, waiting for tears. I flipped slowly to page four. Then page five. Then I looked up. “Tyler,” I said softly, “did you actually read this? Or did you just have your lawyer skim it?” His smile twitched. I turned the document around. “Whitfield Bakery LLC was dissolved in 2019. Dad and I restructured it after his first heart scare. The building, the recipes, the brand — all of it transferred to Eleanor Whitfield Holdings. Mine. Has been for six years.” The phone in Bree’s hand started to lower. “Dad left you something though,” I added gently. “Page seven. The 1987 delivery van. It’s parked out back. Needs a new transmission.” Tyler’s face went the color of raw dough. “That’s — that’s not — Dad promised me—” “Dad promised you nothing,” I said. “Because Dad watched you skip his chemo appointments to go to Cabo. He watched me close this shop at midnight and open it at four. He knew exactly who his real businessman was.” Bree quietly stopped recording. Then I slid a second envelope across the counter — a cease and desist from my attorney, because Tyler had spent the last month telling our father’s old vendors he was the new owner and pocketing their deposits. “You have forty-eight hours to refund every cent, or my lawyer files Monday morning.” He opened his mouth. I pointed to the door. “Out. You don’t get to stand in his bakery in that suit.” Tyler left without the will, without his fiancée’s respect, and without the legacy he was so sure he’d already won. I turned off Bree’s forgotten phone, set it on the counter, and took down my father’s apron from the hook. It still smelled like him. I tied it over mine, flipped the sign to OPEN, and started the morning batch — exactly the way he taught me.”