“Harper,” he said, “they’re here.”

My chest tightened. “Who?”

“Your mother,” he replied. “And two people with clipboards. They’re telling the front desk they’re assuming control and insisting the event proceed.”

“Put me on FaceTime,” I said.

He did.

The camera showed Diane—pearls, flawless hair, dressed like a guest of honor. Beside her stood a man with the same letterhead folder. Another woman hovered near the concierge, requesting access to reserved rooms.

My mother noticed the screen and smiled sharply. “Harper, don’t do this,” she said loudly.

“You were informed in writing that you have no authority,” I responded calmly.

She laughed dismissively. “This is my resort.”

Staff members watched nervously, unsure whom to obey.

I said what my family never expected to hear:

“Miles, call security and notify the Sheriff for trespassing.”

My mother’s composure faltered.

The man with the folder stepped forward. “You cannot remove a VIP client,” he began.

Jasmine stepped into view beside me. “You represent no legally authorized party,” she stated. “And your filing has been flagged.”

My mother’s eyes flickered with alarm before narrowing again. “You hired a lawyer?” she accused, as though defending myself were betrayal.