“The party is cancelled. The lawyer is coming,” my father said on my birthday. It was all because I refused to let my sister live in my $1.5 million vacation home. I just nodded, holding back my laughter. Behind the lawyer came the police I had called.

My mother nodded beside him, her expression carefully composed. “Family supports each other. Keeping a house this large to yourself is selfish.”

The word hung in the air. Selfish.

I almost laughed at how familiar it sounded. I glanced around at the people I had invited, people who had come to celebrate with me, not to witness this kind of confrontation.

“Every payment on this house came from me,” I said, meeting their eyes directly. “I’m not giving it up to anyone.”

My father’s expression hardened. “Fine,” he snapped, pulling out his phone with theatrical precision. “Then everyone here should leave, because this party is over.”

Guests began setting down their plates, unsure whether to stay or go, while he turned back to me with a cold look.

“My lawyer will be here soon,” he added. “We’ll settle the legal rights to this house properly.”

I had to resist the urge to smile.

I had negotiated contracts worth millions and built my company from nothing, yet he still thought this would intimidate me.

“Go ahead,” I said calmly. “Call your lawyer.”