My stepmother called at 11:47 p.m. on the first night in the beach house that I bought with my own money and told me she and my father were moving in the next day, that they were taking the master suite, that her daughter would get the best ocean

Not because Miranda was incapable of entitlement. She built her whole life on entitlement polished until it looked like elegance. But the scale of it was so naked that it took my brain a moment to catch up. It was nearly midnight. I’d owned the house less than twelve hours. And my stepmother was informing me that she, my father, and her daughter were moving in.

“The next day?” I repeated.

“Yes. Your father wants sea air, and honestly, that house is far too much for one person. It’ll be lonely for you. Wasteful. We’ll make it lively. Brooke’s been desperate to leave that apartment anyway.”

Brooke was thirty-one and had been desperate to leave at least six times in the past four years—usually whenever rent or consequences showed up.

“I don’t remember inviting anyone to move in,” I said.

Miranda sighed gently. “Don’t be difficult. Family doesn’t need engraved invitations. We’ll leave by ten. Turn down the linens in the master. And Brooke has very sensitive skin, so tell your housekeeper not to use fabric softener on her sheets.”

I actually laughed once. “I don’t have a housekeeper.”

Pause. Then coolly: “Well. Then perhaps you should.”