Chapter 22 - The Return of the Prodigal Parasite
The sun was barely cresting the Manhattan skyline when my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It wasn't a business email or a calendar reminder. It was a text message from a phone number I had blocked six months ago—a number belonging to my mother.
*Chloe. We need to talk. Your father’s stroke left him unable to speak clearly, and the house is scheduled for auction next Friday. Elaine is inconsolable. You can't just destroy our lives over a petty family dispute. Call me immediately. This is your mother.*
I stared at the screen, sipping my black coffee, feeling a cold, clinical detachment wash over me. The desperation in her words was palpable, a stark contrast to the smug, sneering condescension she had worn like designer perfume the day Elaine unwrapped that six-thousand-dollar bag while I sat empty-handed.
Caleb walked into the kitchen, dressed in his crisp corporate attire, and glanced at my phone. "Let me guess. The royal family is waving the white flag?"
"They're not waving a white flag," I corrected, setting my mug down with a soft click. "They're circling the wagons because the walls are finally caving in. The house goes to auction next week. Mom thinks I’m the villain who pulled the rug out from under them, completely blind to the fact that Arthur built a foundation out of quicksand."
"Are you going to answer?" Caleb asked, his eyes searching mine.
"No," I replied, sliding the phone into my pocket. "Answering implies there's still a conversation to be had. But... I do think it’s time for a house call. Not to yell, not to gloat. Just to deliver a little portfolio update."
Two hours later, my hybrid SUV pulled up into the circular gravel driveway of the Mercer estate. The grand mansion that had once radiated ostentatious wealth now looked tired, the white paint chipping slightly around the oversized double doors, the manicured boxwood hedges growing slightly wild at the edges.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting my tailored wool coat, and walked up the front steps. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the heavy oak door swung open.
Elaine stood there. Gone was the pristine, untouchable princess of the holiday living room. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, unwashed bun, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from days of crying, and she was wearing an oversized collegiate sweatshirt that looked like it hadn't seen a washing machine in a week. When she saw me, her expression fractured instantly—shifting from desperate hope to blinding, unadulterated rage.
"You," she hissed, her voice cracking. "You miserable, vindictive bitch. What are you doing here? Are you here to take pictures of us drowning? Are you happy now that our lives are completely destroyed?"
May you like
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply crossed my arms, looking down at her with a calm, steady gaze that drove her absolute madness.
"Hello, Elaine," I said smoothly, stepping past her uninvited into the grand foyer. "It's funny how fast a six-thousand-dollar bag loses its luster when you realize you can't even afford the electricity to keep the lights on."
