She looked suspicious but also intrigued. Drama was her oxygen. She loved an audience.
She called Brandon and Sierra down.
Brandon stomped into the dining room, half-paying attention, holding his phone. Sierra floated in behind him, already filming on Instagram, because if it wasn’t content, did it even happen?
We sat around the table. The spaghetti got cold in the kitchen.
Tracy cleared her throat.
“As I was saying,” she announced, in full CEO mode, “now that Lucy is working, your father and I think it’s only fair—”
“We’re not doing this twice,” I interrupted. “They heard. They know. Can we skip to the part where I respond?”
She gave me a tight smile.
“Go ahead,” she said, clearly expecting me to back down, maybe negotiate to $500 or something.
I looked at all three of them, one by one.
Brandon, smug, probably picturing more V-Bucks purchased with the money I’d be handing over.
Sierra, smirking, phone raised.
Tracy, that faux-benevolent expression plastered on her Botoxed face.
“I’m not paying rent,” I said. “Because this house? Belongs to me.”
The silence was glorious.