Pamela blinked, surprised by my lack of emotion. “You can transfer it to my personal account,” she said stiffly. “But do not think this buys you any special treatment. You are still expected to help the staff clear the table.”
I tapped my screen a few times. A soft ding echoed from my mother’s purse on the floor. “Transaction complete,” I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “Now that we have settled my debt for the food, perhaps we can move on to the next item of business.”
I reached down to the floor and picked up the small black box I had brought with me. I placed it gently on the center of the table right next to the centerpiece. Because unlike you, I did not come empty-handed.
Britney did not just watch me hold the invoice, she broadcasted it. She whipped out her phone, the latest model naturally, and tapped the screen with her manicured nails. “Oh my god, you guys have to see this,” she chirped into the lens, her voice instantly shifting to that high-pitched fake enthusiasm she reserved for her social media.
She was live streaming to her close friends list, which I knew included every mean girl she had gone to high school with and probably half the country club wives. She panned the phone around the table, showing off the crystal glasses, the fire roaring in the background, and finally landing on me.
“Say hi, Audrey,” she commanded, shoving the phone in my face. “We are teaching my big sister a little lesson about the real world today. Look at her face. She is so confused.” She zoomed in on the invoice in my hand, then back to my outfit. “And can we talk about this fit check? I think that sweater is from the Gap circa 2010. It is literally pilling at the elbows.”
“Honestly, she should be grateful we even let her sit at the adults table tonight. Most people who contribute $0 to the family vacation would be eating in the kitchen with the help. Right, babe?” She turned the camera to Damon, who flashed a winning smile and waved his new PC Felipe watch at the lens.
“Teaching fiscal responsibility is a kindness, Britney,” he said, smooth as silk. “We are just helping her grow up.”
Brittany giggled that cruel bubbling sound that used to make me run to my room in tears when we were kids. Not anymore. I sat perfectly still. I knew exactly who was watching that stream—people who judged worth by designer labels and zip codes. Let them watch. Let them see exactly who Britney and Damon were.
I did not scream. I did not throw the wine in her face, though the thought did cross my mind. Instead, I picked up my phone. My hands were steady. Hands were.
I opened the banking app on my screen, not the secure encrypted app that managed my portfolio at Titanium Ventures. The basic one, the one that showed a balance of $2,000, which they thought was my life savings. I entered my mother’s email address. I typed in $700.
Britney was still monologuing to her phone. “She is probably going to ask Dad for a loan from beyond the grave,” she joked. I pressed the confirm button. The signal in Aspen was excellent, instantaneous. Ding. The sound cut through Britney chatter like a knife. It came from my mother purse sitting on the floor. It was the distinct notification sound of a cash transfer.
Pamela blinked, reaching down to retrieve her phone. She stared at the screen. Her eyebrows shot up. “She paid it,” Pamela set her voice flat with surprise. “The full amount.”
Britney lowered her phone, the live stream still running but capturing only the tablecloth now. “Wait, she actually had $700.” She sounded disappointed. She wanted a fight. She wanted me to beg. She wanted content.
I locked my phone and set it down next to my empty plate. “Transaction complete,” I said, my voice cool and detached. “I believe that covers my room and board. Now, if you do not mind, I would like to eat the dinner I just purchased.”
Britney scoffed, rolling her eyes, and finally ended the stream. She looked at me with a mix of annoyance and suspicion. “You probably overdrafted,” she muttered, picking up her fork.
I just smiled and cut into my steak. The small box sat on the center of the table, stark and unadorned against the crystal and silver. It was wrapped in matte black paper with no ribbon, no bow, and absolutely no card. It looked less like a Christmas present and more like a piece of evidence.
Britney leaned forward, squinting at it with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “Is that it?” she asked, poking the box with a manicured finger. “It looks ominous.”
“Did you make us something, Audrey? Like one of those DIY craft projects you used to do in therapy.” Damon let out a short barking laugh. “It is probably homemade cookies,” he sneered, reaching out to grab the box. “Or maybe coupons for free hugs.”
He shook the box violently next to his ear. It made no sound. It felt solid but light. “Whatever it is, it is definitely not in the same tax bracket as a Porsche or a PC Philippe.” He made a motion as if to toss it over his shoulder toward the trash can in the corner of the room. “Let us save ourselves the disappointment and clear the table for dessert.”
I did not flinch. I did not reach out to stop him. I simply watched them play out the roles I knew they would play.
But before Damon could release the box, Pamela spoke up. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the malevolence like a whip. “Damon, put it down,” she commanded. “We are not savages. We will accept the gift with grace regardless of its value. It is the thought that counts after all, even if the thought is minimal.”
Damon rolled his eyes, but obeyed, tossing the black box back onto the table where it slid and hit the pepper shaker. Pamela picked it up using only her fingertips as if she were worried it might be sticky or contaminated. She walked over to the towering Christmas tree, which was already overflowing with designer bags and orange Hermes boxes. She knelt down and tucked my black box deep into the back behind a large gift basket of imported truffles.
“There,” she said, dusting off her hands. “We will open it when we open everything else on Christmas morning.”
“Actually,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through the air, “not Christmas morning. That box is to be opened at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Consider it a way to ring in the new year. A fresh start for everyone.”
Britney groaned, throwing her head back. “Oh my god, you have to make everything so dramatic. Is it a time capsule or something? That is so cringe, Audrey. Seriously, just let us open it now so we can pretend to like it and move on.”
“No,” I said firmly, taking a sip of my water. “Midnight on the 31st. That is the condition. If you open it before, then the gift becomes void.”
