Chapter 20
Alina
The March chill bites at my exposed skin as we step out of Raffaele’s black car. Cleveland’s winter hasn’t quite released its grip yet, leaving the sidewalks wet and shining from last night’s freezing rain.
I tug my coat tighter around my body, not just against the cold but against the anxiety clawing at my throat.
The law office before us is small and unassuming. A brick building wedged between an accountant’s office and a vacant storefront. But it might as well be a fortress for all the dread it inspires in me.
This is where I’ll face Sabrina for the first time since she just up and left. And I still don’t know how I feel about that.
“Breathe, Piccola,” Raffaele murmurs, his hand settling at the small of my back, guiding me forward with quiet authority. His touch anchors me to the present, preventing my mind from spiraling into panic. “Remember who you belong to now.”
I nod, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. The possessiveness in his statement should disturb me. Instead, it steadies my shaking hands.
The reception area is exactly what you’d expect from the outside. Beige walls, worn carpet, and furniture that’s at least two decades out of date. But none of that registers properly because sitting across the room, flipping through a magazine with practiced indifference, is my sister.
Sabrina looks up as the door closes behind us. For a split second, something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps—before her features smooth into cool disdain.
She’s immaculately put together as always; her light brown hair sleek and styled, her makeup perfect, her clothes expensive and tailored to flatter her slim figure.
Next to her sits Maxwell, his hand resting possessively on her thigh. When his eyes find me, his lips curve into a smile that makes my skin crawl. His gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering in places that make me want to cover myself despite being fully clothed.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Look who’s still alive.”
Raffaele’s body goes still beside me, his hand sliding from my lower back to my hip, drawing me closer to his side with a possessive pressure. The movement is subtle but unmistakable—a claim being staked. Maxwell’s eyes track the motion, narrowing slightly before sliding back to my face.
“Sabrina,” I acknowledge, deliberately ignoring Maxwell. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she says, setting down her magazine. “Considering your… living situation.”
God, I don’t think it’s possible for her to care any less.
Before I can respond, a door opens, and an older man with thinning gray hair and reading glasses perched low on his nose appears. “Are both Miss Brewers present?”
“We are,” both Sabrina and I say in unison.
The man nods. “We’re ready for you. Please follow me.”
Raffaele’s hand remains firmly on my hip as we follow the lawyer into his office. The space is cramped, lined with shelves of leather-bound law books and filing cabinets. The desk dominates the room, leaving barely enough space for the two visitor chairs arranged before it.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, flustered. “I only have two chairs. Would the gentlemen mind standing?”
Maxwell opens his mouth, probably to protest. But Raffaele just smirks at me as he sits down, dragging me with him so I’m sitting sideways in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Despite knowing it’s inappropriate, I can’t make myself fight it when I see the shock on Sabrina’s face.
I notice the lawyer—Mr. Clark, according to the nameplate on his desk—glancing nervously at Raffaele several times.
“We’re here for the estate settlement meeting regarding Sophia Marie Brewer,” Mr. Clark says, adjusting his glasses. “I’ll walk you through the will and the transfer paperwork.” His voice has a droning quality, like he’s done this so many times the words have lost all meaning to him.
I stare at the framed diplomas on the wall behind him, trying to focus on anything other than the hole in my chest that opens wider every time someone says my mom’s name.
“I’ll try to keep this brief,” Mr. Clark continues. “The will is fairly straightforward. After addressing any outstanding debts of the estate—”
“Which there aren’t any of,” Sabrina interjects with a pointed look in my direction.
Mr. Clark clears his throat. “As I was saying, after debts, Ms. Brewer divided her assets equally between her two daughters. The family bakery business and the apartment above it are split fifty-fifty between Alina Kate Brewer and Sabrina Olivia Brewer.”
A tense silence fills the room. I knew this was coming—it’s what Mom always said she intended—but hearing it officially stated makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
“That’s it?” Sabrina’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Fifty-fifty? That can’t be right.”
Mr. Clark peers at her over the top of his glasses. “I assure you, Ms. Brewer, the will is quite clear on this matter.”
“But my dad put money into that business as well,” Sabrina argues, sitting forward in her chair. “I should get a larger share based on his investment alone.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “It was our dad, Sabrina,” I say quietly but firmly. “Not just yours.”
Sabrina’s eyes snap to mine, blazing with an anger that seems disproportionate to my gentle correction. Maxwell places a restraining hand on her arm, but I can see the tension radiating through her body.
“The will clearly states an equal division,” Mr. Clark interjects, his monotone voice taking on a hint of impatience. “Ms. Brewer was quite explicit about her wishes.”
I feel Raffaele shift beneath me, his posture sharpening with quiet attention. His fingers find mine, squeezing gently.
Sabrina’s face contorts with rage. “This is bullsh—”
“You’re free to challenge it,” Mr. Clark says evenly, removing his glasses. “But absent legal grounds such as undue influence or lack of capacity, it’s unlikely to succeed. Your mother executed this properly.”
I sit in stunned silence, processing what’s happening. But it’s like with everything else in my life right now. I don’t get it. The day after Mom’s death, Sabrina and I talked. We both assumed we’d receive an even split. We even talked about it at the funeral, didn’t we?
Her reaction makes no sense at all.
“Your mother recorded a transfer-on-death deed for the building and structured the bakery through an LLC,” Mr. Clark explains.
Then he goes on to explain how that’s handled, what he’s already done, and what happens now. It all sounds extremely complex to me. But what do I know?
“You are now co-owners. Once the administrative updates are processed, the records will reflect that,” he finishes.
Sabrina scoffs. “As if I want anything to do with that run-down dump.”
The casual dismissal of what our mom built—what I’ve poured my heart into—stings more than I want to admit. I straighten my spine, refusing to show how deeply her words cut.
But as usual, I bite my tongue and shift on Raffaele’s lap while Mr. Clark explains what happens to the remaining assets such as Mom’s personal bank accounts, remaining funds in the estate, life insurance proceeds, and her personal belongings.
Everything is to be shared equally between us, which makes a bitter tang spread in my mouth. I don’t need to ask or check to know that Sabrina’s already taken everything of monetary value.
Finished with his explanation, Mr. Clark slides a folder across his desk. I catch him looking at me with what appears to be sympathy in his eyes. It’s the same look people gave me at Mom’s funeral—pity mixed with relief that they’re not in my shoes.
While I look the papers over and sign, he hands another folder to Sabrina. Once we’ve both signed, we swap and hand them back to him.
“That’s everything,” Mr. Clark announces. “You’ll receive everything electronically within the next week or so.”
We say our goodbyes, and I’m mortified when I’m the only Brewer who actually thanks him for all his help. Mom would roll over in her grave if she could see the way Sabrina’s behaving.
The glass doors of the law office swing shut behind us with a soft click that feels too anticlimactic for what just happened inside.
“I’ll go get the car,” Raffaele murmurs.
I nod but don’t answer. I’m too focused on Sabrina as she stalks ahead of us, her heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement. She didn’t even say goodbye. The thought makes something inside me snap.
After years of shrinking myself, of swallowing questions and hurt, I can’t do it anymore.
“Sabrina,” I call, my voice carrying across the nearly empty parking lot. “Wait up.”
She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a dramatic sigh before she pivots to face me, her expression a mask of irritation. “What, Alina? It’s over. We’re done here.”
I take a few steps forward, closing the distance between us. The cold air stings my cheeks, or maybe it’s the adrenaline making my skin prickle.
“Why do you hate me so much?” The question escapes my lips before I can think better of it. Simple. Direct. The words hang between us like visible breath in the March air.
Sabrina’s perfect features twist into something ugly. For a moment, she looks so much like our dad that I almost take a step back. “You want to know why?” she hisses. “Really? You’re that oblivious?”
Maxwell chuckles, a sound that crawls up my spine like unwanted fingers. “Maybe she is, babe. Fat and stupid often go together.”
I ignore him, keeping my focus on my sister. “Yes, I want to know. What did I ever do to make you treat me like—”
The crack of Sabrina’s palm against my cheek echoes in the parking lot. The force of it snaps my head to the side, leaving my ear ringing and my skin burning. I taste copper where my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek.
“Sabrina!” I exclaim, shocked. “W-why?”
When she raises her hand again, I stagger backward, tripping over my feet and falling on my butt on the cold, unforgiving asphalt.