I closed the album and looked out at the ocean.
The water didn’t care about my regrets. It kept moving, steady and endless.
So did I.
Part 7
Brandon didn’t violate the protective order right away.
For about two weeks, things were quiet enough that I almost started to believe the storm had passed. Bookings came in. The management company handled check-ins smoothly. The renters treated the house like a privilege instead of a conquest. The deck returned to being a place for morning coffee instead of battleground negotiations.
Then the trouble arrived with a different face.
It was a Friday afternoon when David Chen from the property management firm called, voice tight. “Ms. Sterling,” he said, “we have an issue.”
“I’m listening,” I replied.
“A man contacted our office,” he said. “He claimed to represent you. He asked for access to booking schedules and revenue reports.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “Brandon.”“Yes,” David said. “He used your name and said he was assisting you with finances.”
“Did anyone give him anything?” I asked, already knowing David was too professional to be fooled.
“No,” he said quickly. “We declined and documented the call. But he was… persistent.”
Of course he was.
Brandon wasn’t used to doors staying closed.
“Send me the documentation,” I said. “And forward it to Sarah.”
Done and done.
The next escalation came three days later, on a quiet morning when the tide was low and the sky was so blue it looked fake.
I was in the kitchen when my driveway camera alerted my phone.
Two men stood near my front gate. One wore a polo shirt and carried a small toolkit. The other—my son—stood beside him with his hands in his pockets, posture casual, like he was waiting for service.
The toolbox man looked like a locksmith.
My pulse didn’t spike. It cooled.
I walked to the window, then to the front door, and opened it without stepping outside.
Brandon looked up, startled to see me. “Mom,” he said, too bright. “Hey. We just need to—”
“Step off my property,” I said.
The locksmith shifted uncomfortably. “Ma’am,” he said, “your son said—”
“My son is under a protective order,” I said calmly. “He has no right to be here. If you touch my locks, you’ll be aiding trespass.”
Brandon’s jaw tightened. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I’m family.”
“No,” I replied, voice steady. “You’re a legal risk with a history of false reports.”