I stared at the screen, doing the math in my head. Their house had been paid off years ago. Even if Chloe’s debts were a
My fingers flew across the keyboard. I pulled up Chloe’s public Instagram profile. She had posted a story four hours ago. It was a boomerang video of her clinking a crystal glass of champagne in a pristine, luxurious hotel room at the Grand View Resort—a five-star spa two hours south.
The caption read: New beginnings! Manifesting abundance! Thanks Mom and Dad for believing in my vision. #CryptoQueen #GenerationalWealth
My blood ran ice cold. I scrolled down. Two days
They hadn’t just paid off her debt. They had liquidated their entire life’s work, handed her the cash, bought her a luxury sports car to project a “successful image,” and likely poured the remainder into whatever volatile cryptocurrency scam she was currently peddling.
They weren’t temporarily displaced. They were financially annihilated. They had bet their entire existence on Chloe’s delusions, and I was the backup plan they intended to bleed dry.
As the first gray, bleak light of dawn
A bright yellow sports car was turning down my gravel driveway. The golden child had arrived to claim her castle.
The yellow Porsche Boxster crept down the quarter-mile driveway, its low undercarriage scraping against the uneven gravel. It pulled up directly behind the U-Haul and gave two cheerful, obnoxious honks.
I stood on the second-floor balcony, a steaming mug of black coffee warming my hands, watching
Chloe hopped out of the driver’s seat. Despite the biting forty-degree weather, the convertible top was down. She wore oversized designer sunglasses and a pristine white faux-fur coat, looking as if she had just stepped off a film set rather than arriving at a hostage negotiation.
Arthur sat up in the Buick, rubbing his face vigorously. Martha practically fell out of the passenger door, her joints stiff, looking utterly miserable.
Chloe surveyed the soggy, ruined boxes scattered across my manicured lawn and visibly wrinkled her nose. “Ew,” she whined, her voice carrying easily up to the balcony. “Why is all our garbage outside? Did you guys seriously sleep in the car?”
“Carter wouldn’t open the door,” Martha croaked, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.
Chloe tilted her head back and spotted me standing by the railing. She pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “Carter! Stop being such a dramatic sociopath. Open the door. Mom looks like a zombie and I need to plug in my ring light.”
I took a slow, deliberate sip of my coffee. “Nice car, Chloe,” I called down, my voice flat and carrying over the wind. “Does it come with a heated garage, or do you sleep in the trunk?”
Chloe rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t be a jealous hater. It’s a business asset for my personal brand. Now come down here and unlock the door. I’m freezing.”
“You have four hundred thousand dollars in business assets,” I countered loudly. “Go buy a space heater.”
Her smug expression faltered, replaced instantly by the petulant rage of a toddler denied a toy. “It’s not liquid cash, you idiot! It’s capital investment! You wouldn’t understand because you’re a corporate slave working for a paycheck. I am building a decentralized empire! Mom and Dad are my seed investors. We’re going to quadruple their retirement in six months!”
“If your seed investors are so wealthy,” I yelled back, “why are they sleeping in a freezing Buick?”
Arthur slammed his car door, his face a mask of exhausted rage. He pointed a thick, shaking finger up at me. “That is enough! You do not disrespect your sister’s entrepreneurial spirit! We just need a place to stay while the portfolio matures. Six months, Carter. A year at the absolute most!”
“A year?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that echoed off the pine trees. “You think I’m going to let you squat in my home while she plays venture capitalist with Monopoly money? You blew six hundred grand on a scam and a leased Porsche!”
“It’s not a lease!” Chloe shrieked, instantly defensive, confirming exactly what I suspected. “It’s a strategic financing vehicle! We just… we’re temporarily illiquid!”
Illiquid. A fancy word for destitute. They had literally zero dollars to their names.
“Go back to the spa, Chloe,” I said, turning my back on them. “And take your investors with you. You’re trespassing.”
I stepped back inside and slid the heavy glass balcony door shut, locking it with a satisfying click. I pulled the heavy blackout curtains, cutting off the sight of them, but I couldn’t block out the sound of Chloe screaming obscenities and violently kicking the cedar siding of my house.
I slumped against the kitchen counter, rubbing my temples. How does this end? I wondered. They had no exit strategy. They had burned their ships, and mine was the only island left.
A faint scratching sound drew my attention to the front door.
I walked quietly into the foyer. A piece of crumpled notebook paper had been forcefully shoved under the rubber weather stripping at the base of the door. I pulled it free and smoothed it out on the kitchen island. It was written in Martha’s elegant, looping cursive. The sheer audacity of the words made the breath catch in my throat.
Carter, since you are forcing us to negotiate like strangers, here are the terms for our residency.
Clause One: Dad and I will occupy the primary master suite on the first floor. Dad’s knees cannot handle stairs.
Clause Two: Chloe requires the upstairs guest room with the lake view for optimal natural lighting for her content creation.
Clause Three: You will move your office into the unfinished basement. You can buy space heaters.
Clause Four: We will contribute a combined $300 a month in rent. You will continue covering the mortgage, utilities, and property taxes, as it is legally your asset.
Clause Five: Family dinners are mandatory. You will cook five nights a week.
Sign below to accept.
