That night, I stood amidst a lavish party honoring my brother, surrounded by crystals and confetti, while my phone buzzed with a chilling notification. A new business loan for $180,000 had just been approved in my name. They claimed they forgot my birthday, but the bank certainly remembered. Then I heard my mother laugh. “Just let her arrive late,” she told the guests. “The signing must be done first.”
My name is Vivien Ortiz, and today I turned thirty-four. I stood at the base of the limestone steps leading up to the Benton Estate, a sprawling architectural beast perched in the hills of West Austin, Texas. The late afternoon sun was relentless, baking the pavement and making the air shimmer with a dry, suffocating heat. But inside those double oak doors, I knew the climate would be controlled to a precise, frigid sixty-eight degrees. That was how my mother, Elaine, liked it. She preferred her environment, much like her family, to be cold, preserved, and completely under her command.
I smoothed the fabric of my dress, a simple navy sheath that I had bought off the rack at a department store three years ago. It was the best thing I owned. Yet, I knew that the moment I crossed the threshold, I would look like the help compared to the clientele waiting inside. I took a breath, tasting the exhaust from the line of luxury sedans idling in the driveway, and walked up the steps. The grand foyer was already packed. A string quartet played something vaguely classical and expensive in the corner, drowned out by the clinking of crystal flutes and the low roar of polite, wealthy laughter. The scent of expensive lilies and even more expensive perfume hit me like a physical wall.
I navigated through the crowd, keeping my head down, trying to make myself as narrow as possible. I was an expert at being invisible in this house. Then I saw it suspended across the vaulted ceiling of the great room, glittering under the light of a chandelier that cost more than my college tuition. It was a massive banner. The letters were woven in gold silk, shimmering against a backdrop of royal blue velvet: Happy Birthday, Grant.
I stopped dead in my tracks. My chest tightened—a familiar dull ache that I had grown used to over the last decade. Today was October 15th, my birthday. It was also, technically, the birthday of my stepbrother, Grant Benton. We shared the date, but we did not share the day. For ten years, ever since my mother married Calvin Benton and integrated us into his empire, the 15th of October had ceased to be about Vivien Ortiz. It had become a national holiday for Grant.
I remembered my twenty-fifth birthday. I had come home from my first job, excited to share a cake I had baked myself, only to find the house empty because they had taken Grant to Paris for the weekend. I remembered my thirtieth, a milestone I spent eating a microwave dinner alone in my apartment while Instagram showed me photos of Elaine and Grant toasting on a yacht in Cabo. They always had an excuse. “Oh, Vivien, we thought you were working.” “Oh, Vivien, it slipped our minds with all the planning for the gala.” “Oh, Vivien, you know Grant needs this networking opportunity.” They forgot. That was the narrative. They were just too busy, too important, too wrapped up in the Benton legacy to remember the daughter who didn’t carry the name.
I looked at the banner again. Grant was turning thirty-two today. The Golden Boy, the heir apparent to the Benton Legacy Group now that Calvin was incapacitated. I watched him across the room, holding a scotch glass with the casual entitlement of a man who has never feared a consequence in his life. He was laughing at something a senator was saying, his head thrown back, his teeth white and perfect. I was about to turn around and leave. I had done my duty. I had shown my face. I could go back to my car, drive to the twenty-four-hour diner on the highway, and order a slice of cherry pie. That was my tradition.
But then my phone vibrated against my hip. It was a sharp, aggressive buzz, not a text message, not a call. It was the specific long vibration of a security alert. I pulled the phone from my clutch, shielding the screen from the prying eyes of a woman in a sequined gown who was passing by. I unlocked it. The brightness of the screen stung my eyes. It was an email from a credit monitoring service I had signed up for years ago and rarely checked.
Alert: New credit inquiry and account opening.
I frowned, tapping the notification. It took a moment to load on the spotty Wi-Fi. When the details populated, the blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy. Loan Approved: Small Business Capital Expansion. Principal Amount: $180,000. Borrower: Vivien M. Ortiz. Date: October 15th. Status: Disbursed.
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