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I look at him.

“If you don’t fight,” Don says, “what happens?”

The house is quiet around us.

“I could lose everything that’s left.”

“Then we need to discuss what fighting looks like.” He pushes the éclairs closer to me. “But first, eat the damn pastry. Blood sugar before warfare.”

He stands at the kitchen island with one hip against the marble, flipping through photographs of Renny, choosing which versions of him get to survive.

“This one,” he says, holding up a picture from Pride maybe ten years ago.

“No.”

Don looks at it again. “Why?”

“Too happy.”

He sets the photo aside without comment.

“Pick whatever you want,” I say. “I actually don’t care.”

Don’s hand settles over the stack.

“Now. About the kid.”

I turn toward the sink and start rinsing a plate that isn’t dirty.

“No,” he says. “No performative dishwashing while we plot your future.”

I shut off the water.

“What about Clint?”

“You need to invite him.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Good. We’ve established the options. Now you need to choose the right one.”

“Why would I invite him?”

“Because he’s Renny’s son.”

The directness hits harder than the sentence deserves.

“He’s a stranger.”

“Because Renny made him one and look where we are now.”

I flinch. Don sees it.

“If Clint is thinking about a claim on the estate,” he says, “or even if he doesn’t know what he’s thinking yet, then right now is your chance to convince him not to.”