Marcus slid the papers toward me with two fingers. “Eighty grand, Hannah. That’s generous for a failing little cupcake shop. Sign it, or I contest the will and drag you through court until you’re serving day-olds out of a food truck.”
I finally spoke. “Failing?”
He laughed. “Mom was sentimental. You’re sentimental. That place hemorrhages money.”
That’s when the door opened.
In walked Mr. Avery, our mother’s accountant of twenty-two years, followed by a woman in a navy blazer I’d been quietly meeting with for six months — Diane Castellanos, regional director for Sweet Harbor Cafés, a chain with two hundred locations along the East Coast.
Marcus’s smirk twitched.
Diane set a folder on the table. “Hannah, we’re prepared to finalize today. Three-point-two million for the recipes, the name, and a ten-year licensing deal that keeps you as head creative. The Brooklyn flagship breaks ground in November.”
The color drained from Marcus’s face.
Mr. Avery slid his own folder over. “And Marcus, since you brought up the will — your mother updated it four months before she passed. There’s a clause. Any heir who attempts to pressure, coerce, or buy out another heir forfeits their share of the liquid estate. That’s the four hundred thousand you were counting on for your condo down payment.” He tapped the page. “You just triggered it. On record. In front of witnesses.”
Marcus shot up. “That’s — you set me up —”
“No,” I said quietly. “Mom did. She knew exactly who you were. She just wanted you to show us first.”
I stood, picked up his buyout papers, and tore them clean down the middle.
“The bakery isn’t burning, Marcus. It’s expanding. And you’re not invited.”
I walked out into the evening air, the smell of fresh bread drifting from down the block, and for the first time since the funeral, I felt my mother smiling.
