Sign the papers, sweetheart, or I’ll make sure your little bakery burns to the

I slid a thin manila folder across the desk. Damon laughed before he opened it. “What’s this, Margaret? A muffin recipe?” Then he saw the first page. Bank of Cayman. Account numbers. His name. His signature. The laugh died in his throat. “You’ve been moving money out of Whitlock Holdings for two years,” I said softly, stirring my coffee for the first time. “Three point four million, to be exact. Daniel found it the week before his heart attack. He just hadn’t decided what to do about his baby brother yet.” Damon’s face went the color of bread dough. “You can’t prove —” “I can. The forensic accountant Daniel hired finished his report last Tuesday. Funny thing about grief, Damon. People underestimate what a widow does at 3 a.m. when she can’t sleep.” The study door opened. Two men in gray suits stepped inside, badges clipped to their belts. Behind them, Daniel’s attorney, Eleanor, holding a second folder thicker than the first. “Mrs. Whitlock,” Eleanor said gently, “the board voted this morning. Unanimous. Damon is removed as CFO, effective now. The SEC was briefed at nine.” Damon shot up, whiskey sloshing onto the rug he’d been eyeing for months. “Maggie, please — we’re family —” I stood, untied my apron, and laid it across Daniel’s old chair like a flag. “Daniel was family. You’re a line item I’m about to write off.” I walked him to the door myself. On the porch, surrounded by morning light and the soft clicks of handcuffs, he turned one last time. “What about the bakery?” he hissed. I smiled — the first real smile in ninety-one days. “Funny you mention it. I used your frozen assets to buy the building next door. Expansion starts Monday.” The door clicked shut behind him. Inside, the coffee was finally the perfect temperature.