I stared at him, at the man who’d never once asked me if I was okay when I worked eighty-hour weeks and slept in my office. The man who’d called me selfish when I wouldn’t fund Kristen’s “finding herself” phase for the third time. The man who now sat in my guest room like he owned the air.
“Risk management,” I repeated, my voice flat.
I walked to the closet and yanked it open.
Where my business suits should have hung—dark, neat, expensive fabric I’d bought as armor for boardrooms—Kristen’s clothes crowded the space. Shoes I’d never seen were stacked in messy towers. The shelf I’d reserved for spare linens held plastic shopping bags and a curling iron.
“This is theft,” I said, turning back. “Kristen, pack your things and leave. Now.”
Kristen’s expression twisted, outrage flashing.
“Otherwise what?” she shrieked. “You’re always like this, Denise. Acting like you’re the only special one.”
Her voice rose, bouncing off the walls, dramatic and practiced. “You think you built your company all by yourself? Dad raised you strictly when you were little, didn’t he? Mom cooked healthy meals to support you, didn’t she? And this is how you repay them—refusing to lend one room?”