I stood up, clutching my phone tighter. “Mom, it is not that simple,” I started, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.
“Do not you dare speak to me about simplicity, Audrey. Your sister is downstairs crying because she is afraid of losing her home. Damon is trying to save a legacy that has been in this family for two generations and you are sitting up here worrying about a measly $200,000.”
“You are selfish. You have always been selfish.” She began to pace around the room, picking up my things and throwing them down. She grabbed my sketchbook, the one I used to map out acquisition strategies, and tossed it onto the floor.
“Your father would be ashamed of you,” she spat, the words like venom. “He worked himself into an early grave to build this life for us. He wanted his children to support each other. If he could see you now hoarding his money while his company collapses, he would be heartbroken. You are the biggest disappointment of his life.”
That hit me harder than a physical blow. My father had been the only one who believed in me. He was the one who taught me to read a balance sheet before I could read a novel. But Pamela was rewriting history, weaponizing his memory to manipulate me. I bit my lip, tasting blood.
“Mom, please stop,” I whispered. “You do not know what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I am doing,” she screamed. “I am taking control because you are clearly incapable of making the right decision. Where are the papers? Damon said he left them for you. Where are they?”
She did not wait for an answer. She lunged at my suitcase which was sitting on the luggage rack. She unzipped it violently and started ripping the contents out. My clothes, my toiletries, my books flew across the room. It was a violation. It was the desperate act of a woman who was losing her grip on her power.
I stood frozen, watching my mother ransack my room like a common thief. Finally, she found the folder tucked under my pillow. She held it up triumphantly, shaking it in the air. “Here it is,” she panted, her chest heaving.
She marched over to me and shoved the folder into my chest hard enough to make me stumble back. “Sign it, Audrey. Sign it right now. Or so help me, God. You are no longer my daughter. You will be dead to us. You will walk out into that snow and never come back.”
I looked at her face. There was no love there, only greed and fear. She was willing to strip me of everything just to keep up appearances for one more month. I took the folder. My hands were shaking, but my mind was crystal clear. If I signed this, I gave them a lifeline. If I refused, they would kick me out before I could execute the final phase of my plan.
I needed to buy time. I needed them to think they had won. I looked at the pen she was holding out to me. It was a gold Mont Blanc pen engraved with my father initials. The irony was suffocating.
I reached out and took the pen. I held the pen hovering over the signature line, but I did not write. Instead, I pulled my knees up to my chest and clutched my battered leather backpack against my stomach. It was a reflex, a defensive posture I had learned as a child when the shouting started.
“Please, Mom,” I whispered, my voice trembling just enough to sell the performance. “This money is my safety net. It is the only thing dad left me. If I sign this, I have nothing. I cannot just give it up.”
Brittany, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped into the room. She looked at my backpack, her eyes narrowing. “Look at how she is holding that bag, Mom,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger. “She is hiding something else. I bet she has cash in there. Or maybe checks she has not deposited. She never holds on to anything that tightly unless she does not want us to see it.”
“No,” I cried, pulling the bag tighter. “It is just my personal things. Please leave it alone.”
That was all the invitation Britney needed. She crossed the room in three strides and snatched the backpack from my arms. I let her take it, offering just enough resistance to make it look real, but not enough to stop her. She dumped the contents onto the floor. My laptop, my wallet, and a thick sketchbook slid across the carpet.
Britney kicked the laptop aside and grabbed the sketchbook. She flipped through it, laughing cruy. “Look at this, Mom. Drawings. She is 33 years old, and she is still drawing pictures of buildings like a kindergartener.”
She held up a sketch of a modern glass skyscraper I had designed. It was actually the headquarters for Titanium Ventures, but she did not know that. To her, it was just a doodle.
“You think you’re going to be an architect, Audrey?” she sneered. “You could not even finish medical school. This is trash.”
She grabbed a handful of pages and ripped them out. The sound of tearing paper filled the room. “No, stop,” I pleaded, reaching out, but staying seated. Britney laughed and ripped more, throwing the crumpled pages at my face like confetti.
“This is what your dreams are worth, Audrey. Nothing. absolutely nothing.” She tossed the ruined binder onto the floor and stepped on it with her snow boot, grinding the graphite into the carpet.
“Now stop being a baby and signed the papers mom gave you. Or do I need to see what else I can break?”
I looked at the shredded remains of my work, then up at my mother. Pamela did not stop her. She just stood there tapping her foot, waiting. They thought they had broken me. They thought I was crying because I was weak. But behind my hands, I was memorizing every detail. Britney had just destroyed property and used intimidation. Add that to the list of charges.
The smell of maple syrup and sizzling bacon woke me up the next morning. My stomach rumbled violently, reminding me that I had not eaten since the flight to Aspen 2 days ago. I walked down to the dining room, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the previous night was a nightmare. It was not.
The family was gathered around the table, which was laden with platters of fruit pastries and eggs benedict. But there were only three place settings. My spot at the end of the table was bare. No plate, no silverware, not even a glass for water. I stood in the doorway, watching them eat.
Britney was feeding little Leo a piece of croissant while Damon scrolled through his phone, likely checking if his company had imploded yet. Pamela was the first to acknowledge me. She did not look up from her plate as she cut a piece of ham.
“Hunger is a powerful motivator, is it not, Audrey?” she said, her voice calm and conversational.
I stepped into the room, my hands clenched at my sides. “Mom, what is this? Am I not allowed to eat now?”
Pamela finally looked up. Her eyes were devoid any maternal warmth. “Food costs money, Audrey. And as we established yesterday, you have no money. Unless, of course, you have decided to sign the papers Damon gave you. If you sign, you can sit down. You can have coffee. You can have a hot meal. If not, the kitchen is closed.”
I looked at the spread of food. It looked delicious, but it smelled like blackmail. “I am not signing,” I said quietly. “I am not giving Damon control of my future.”
