“You paid off the mortgage?” A glimmer of greedy hope returned to his eyes. “Son, that’s wonderful. With your capital and my experience, we can rebuild.

Davis and Son. Think of the legacy.”

It was pathetic — the frantic clawing of a man falling off a cliff, grabbing at the very person he’d pushed.

“I didn’t pay it off,” I corrected him, no malice in my voice, only fact. “I bought the debt from the bank. Which means I own the mortgage. I own the estate.

You’re drinking champagne in a house that belongs to the ‘grunt’ you shoved out of your life.”

He let out a strangled cry. I reached into my breast pocket, pulled out a thick manila envelope, walked past him without a glance, and went to Michael and Sophia.