I did not argue when my mother smiled and told me to move out by Friday. I simply nodded at the papers my sister held like a verdict and opened the door for them. They had no clue I had legally secured the $1 million estate right after graduation. Two days later, they returned with a moving truck only to realize that the house they thought they had stolen was actually a fortress I had already locked tight.
My name is Piper Young, and I had been waiting for the sound of tires on gravel for exactly twenty-two days.
From the window of the second-floor study, the view of Harbor Hollow was painted in shades of steel gray and pine green. The fog was rolling off the water, clinging to the ancient cedar trees that lined the driveway. This estate, with its wraparound porch and the smell of salt and old wood, was appraised at nearly $1 million. To the casual observer, it was a piece of prime real estate. To me, it was the only place in the world where the floorboards didn’t feel like eggshells.
I watched the black SUV pull up. It was my father’s car. He parked crookedly, aggressively, the front bumper hanging over the edge of the flagstone path. It was a power move—subtle, but intentional. He was marking territory. I took a sip of my coffee; it was cold. I checked my watch. It was 10:00 in the morning on a Tuesday. I was twenty-eight years old, I had just graduated with a master’s degree that nobody in that car cared about, and I was about to play the most difficult role of my life.
I walked downstairs. I did not hurry. The house was silent around me. It was a heavy, comforting silence, the kind that only exists in houses built eighty years ago, where the walls are thick plaster and the doors are solid oak. I reached the bottom of the foyer stairs just as the front door swung open without a knock. They walked in as a formation. My mother, Elaine, led the charge. She was wearing a beige cashmere cardigan that looked soft but probably cost more than my first car. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, sprayed into a helmet of blonde defiance against the humidity outside. Behind her was Grant, my father, checking his phone as he stepped over the threshold, bringing a gust of damp, cold air with him. Between them, protected like a diamond in a velvet box, was Tessa.
My younger sister looked radiant. Of course, she always did. She was wearing a trench coat belted tight at the waist, her eyes bright and predatory as they swept over the foyer. She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the chandelier. She was looking at the wainscoting. She was assessing.
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