Chapter 2 - The Trap of the Phantom Fortune
The dinner table that evening was a grotesque display of hypocrisy.
Margaret had hauled out the fine crystal and silverware—items I had funded during my second year overseas. She poured expensive wine for herself and Paige while casting adoring glances across the mahogany table at me, as if I were a golden-goose statue she had personally sculpted.
“Luke, darling, you simply must try the roast,” Margaret cooed, pushing a heavy silver platter toward me. “I had the local butcher specially select it. We’ve been living so modestly, waiting for you to come home and secure our future.”
Modestly? I thought, glancing around the impeccably decorated dining room, noting the imported Persian rug beneath our feet and the designer artwork lining the walls.
“I’m glad to see you’re both taking care of yourselves,” I replied smoothly, keeping my voice level and casual. Underneath the table, my hand was clenched into a tight, vibrating fist. “Though, the house looks very different. The new gate, the truck outside, the renovations... It looks like a lot more than a modest living.”
Paige waved a dismissive hand, laughing airily. “Oh, that? That was just basic upkeep, Luke! Prices have skyrocketed while you’ve been away. Inflation, you know. We had to dip into a tiny fraction of the money you sent home just to keep the roof from caving in. Honestly, we practically sacrificed ourselves managing this property for you.”
“Yes,” Margaret chimed in, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “Gwen was entirely useless through it all. She wouldn't lift a finger to help coordinate the contractors. She just moped around, complaining about imaginary illnesses, draining our energy.”
Across the room, standing quietly in the shadows near the swinging kitchen door, was Gwen. She wasn't sitting at the table. She had been relegated to the status of domestic help in her own home. Her knitted cap was back on, hiding her scarred scalp, and her hands were raw and red from scrubbing dishes.
I caught Gwen’s eye. She looked away immediately, a tear silently tracking down her sunken cheek.
“Speaking of Gwen,” I said, pitching my voice to carry across the room, leaning back in my chair and swirling the wine in my glass. “Where is she sleeping these days? I noticed her old room on the second floor was locked.”
Margaret froze, her wineglass hovering inches from her mouth. A flicker of panic crossed her features before she masked it with an offended sniff.
“Oh, please. We had to convert that room into a walk-in wardrobe for Paige’s new clothing collection. Gwen insisted on moving downstairs. She said she preferred the cool air near the back utility rooms. You know how eccentric she’s become.”
“Eccentric,” I repeated softly.
“Anyway, forget about her,” Paige leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with manic excitement. “Let’s talk about the four hundred thousand dollars. When does the transfer clear? Because I’ve had my eye on that luxury European crossover SUV down at the local dealership. And Mother wants to redo the entire back patio with imported Italian stone.”
“And I want to set up a trust fund for our social standing in the community,” Margaret added, her eyes practically turning into dollar signs. “We can finally take our rightful place among the elite in this town.”
I smiled—a cold, empty gesture that didn't reach my eyes.
“Don't worry, Mom. The funds are fully processed. In fact, I’ll be visiting the bank tomorrow morning to finalize the distribution accounts. Every single cent is coming home.”
“Oh, bless you!” Margaret beamed, raising her glass. “To Luke! Our provider!”
“To Luke!” Paige echoed eagerly.
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Not a single question was asked about how I was holding up after four years of combat. Not a word of concern for my mental health, my physical scars, or the horrors I had witnessed. To them, I wasn't a son or a brother; I was a walking, breathing ATM machine.
And they had no idea that the ATM was about to detonate.
