That was the moment I stopped arguing.

At 8:15 that morning, I sent one final text.

“Fine. Since none of you are listening, here’s the address.”

Brittany replied with twelve heart emojis.

Mom wrote:

See? Was that really so hard?

I smiled.

Because there was one thing none of them knew.

The villa wasn’t mine anymore.

I had sold it three weeks earlier.

Not “under contract.”

Not “closing soon.”

Sold.

The paperwork was complete.

The keys had already been handed over.

The new owner was a retired federal judge named Margaret Sloan.

She had bought the villa because she wanted privacy.

And she had wasted no time protecting it.

New security gate.

New cameras.

And several very clear signs reading:

PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO TRESPASSING.

At 10:42, my phone exploded with messages.

“CLAIRE WHAT THE HELL?”

“THE GATE WON’T OPEN!”

“CALL SECURITY!”

“WHY IS THERE A WOMAN THREATENING TO CALL THE SHERIFF?”

Then Brittany FaceTimed me.