I dropped my bag behind the counter, fingers trembling as I started the morning routine.
Lights on.
Register counted. Chalkboard quote changed—though my hand shook too badly to make the letters neat.
Each motion felt performative. Like I was playing the role of the woman who used to work here, who used to care about margins and inventory and whether the mystery section needed reorganizing.
That woman was gone.
I didn't know who'd replaced her.
The thought made my throat close.
I turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN with numb fingers.
And heard?—
The unmistakable whine of a power drill. Cutting through the quiet like a violation.
I froze, hand still on the sign.
The sound came again. Louder. Closer. From somewhere deep in the store where storage met the back office.
My pulse spiked.
I moved toward it on instinct, rounding the corner of the history section, pushing through the narrow hallway that led to?—
Three men in hi-vis vests and dust masks, tool belts heavy at their hips, standing in my storage room like they owned it.
One knelt by the baseboard, prying loose rotted wood I'd meant to fix for months. Another measured the wall with a laser level. The third flipped through blueprints spread across my father's old desk, making notes in mechanical pencil.
"Can I help you?"
The words came out sharper than I intended. Sharp enough that all three men looked up, mild surprise crossing their faces.
The one with the blueprints straightened, pulling down his mask to reveal a weathered face that had seen too many job sites. He checked his clipboard with professional detachment.
"Interior repairs and upgrades. Paid in full by a…" His eyes scanned the paperwork. "Gideon Jones."
The way he said Jones told me he was reading it exactly as written. Formal. Legal. Binding.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Kept falling.
"There must be a mistake." My voice sounded far away. Hollow. "I didn't authorize this."
The foreman shook his head, matter-of-fact.
"No ma'am. But he did. Insisted it be done immediately. Said something about structural concerns and—" He flipped a page. "—'ensuring a safe working environment for the owner.'"
Owner.
He'd called me the owner. Like I still had control here. Like this place was still mine to decide for.
The words hit harder than last night's humiliation. Sharper than his hands controlling my movements. Crueler than the contract I'd signed in desperation.
This was my sanctuary.
