The sharp crack of Eli’s wooden mast was still hanging in the room.

The room went dead quiet.

Mark slowly lowered his phone, his brow furrowing in confusion. My mother paused with her glass halfway to her mouth, while my father let out a harsh, disbelieving bark of laughter.

“A showing?” Jenna scoffed, rolling her eyes as if I had just told a bad joke. “Daryl, stop throwing a temper tantrum just because the boys broke a tiny toy. You can’t sell our house.”

“It’s not our house, Jenna,” I said, pulling Zoe closer to my side. “It’s my house. The deed is in my name, the mortgage is paid from my bank account, and as of three days ago, it has been listed on the luxury real estate market.”

My mother slammed her wine glass down on the counter so hard the liquid sloshed over the edge. “Daryl Vance! Have you completely lost your mind? Your sister and her children are staying here for the season! Where are they supposed to go?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “They have nineteen minutes to pack their twelve suitcases, get their ungrateful children, and vacate my premises.”

“Is this how you treat your own blood?” my father growled, stepping forward, his chest puffed out in a pathetic display of dominance. “After everything your mother and I did for you? You’re going to kick your sister out onto the street because of a dropped bottle of soda?”

“No, Dad,” I replied, looking him dead in the eye. “I’m kicking her out because she threw my son’s clothes on the floor, called her family the ‘real family,’ and let her boys destroy something my son worked on for three months while you all toasted to it.”

Mark finally spoke up, pushing himself off the kitchen island. “Look, Daryl, let’s be reasonable here. We’ve already unpacked. The kids are settled. You can’t just evict people without notice. There are squatter laws in California, you know.”

I almost laughed. Mark was a failed real estate agent who hadn’t closed a deal in two years, yet here he was trying to lecture me on property law.

“Squatter laws require thirty days of continuous residency without owner objection,” I said, stepping into his space. “You’ve been here three days. I have video footage from the front porch camera showing the exact date you arrived. Furthermore, I filed a formal notice of non-consent with my attorney yesterday morning. You are trespassers the moment I tell you to leave.”

Jenna’s face turned from smug to pale in a matter of seconds. “Daryl, you’re bluffing. You wouldn’t sell this place. You spent years talking about how much this beach house meant to you.”

“It meant everything to me when I thought it was going to be a haven for my kids,” I said, looking down at Eli, who was still clutching the broken pieces of his sailboat. “But you turned it into a toxic battleground before we even got through the front door.”

Outside, the quiet rumble of a high-end engine echoed down the driveway.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, we watched as a sleek black SUV pulled up onto the gravel driveway, followed closely by two European sedans. A sharp-dressed woman in a navy tailored suit stepped out of the SUV holding a thick leather folder. Behind her came a photographer equipped with professional lighting gear, along with three well-dressed individuals—prospective buyers.

Jenna’s wineglass began to visibly tremble in her hand. “Daryl... who is that?”

“That’s Victoria Vance,” I said smoothly. “No relation, despite the last name. She happens to be the top luxury real estate broker in Malibu. And those people behind her are cash buyers looking for a oceanfront property with immediate possession.”

Victoria marched up the wooden porch steps, her heels clicking authoritatively against the teak deck. She pulled open the screen door, glanced around the chaotic living room, took in the soda stain on the floor, and looked straight at me.

“Mr. Vance,” Victoria said with a crisp, professional smile. “We have the master deed, the listing agreement, and the emergency lock-change authorization signed by the county sheriff. Shall we begin the walkthrough?”

My mother gasped, grabbing her chest as if she were having a heart attack. “Daryl! Tell them to leave! Tell them this is a mistake!”

“No mistake, Mom,” I said coldly. “Victoria, please inform my former guests how much time they have left before law enforcement arrives to assist with their removal.”

Victoria checked her gold wristwatch without missing a beat. “Technically, Mr. Vance, since the private private viewing begins now, any unauthorized occupants remaining on the property in fifteen minutes will be cited for civil trespass. I’ve already pre-notified the local precinct.”

Mark looked at Jenna, his bravado instantly evaporating. “Jenna... did he actually sign a listing agreement?”

“He’s bluffing! He has to be!” Jenna screamed, her voice cracking with pure hysteria. She turned on Victoria, pointing a trembling finger at her. “Get out of my house! Get out right now!”

Victoria didn't even flinch. She simply turned to the photographer. “Please start capturing the ocean views from the terrace first. Ignore the clutter in the kitchen; we will have the property professionally staged by tomorrow morning once the current occupants clear their belongings.”

The prospective buyers stepped inside, looking around with keen interest. An older, wealthy gentleman in a linen shirt walked over toward the kitchen, glancing at the spilled orange soda, then at Jenna, who was standing there in total shock.

“Charming view,” the buyer remarked dryly to his wife. “Though the place clearly needs a thorough extermination.”