My stepmother called at 11:47 p.m. on the first night in the beach house 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-view room

Every morning she filmed some version of herself against the water. Matcha on the balcony. “Soft reset” skincare at the ocean-view vanity. Pilates on the terrace. She addressed her followers in the fake-intimate voice of people who live online, called the house “our family’s little sanctuary,” and once described herself as “finally home where the energy matches me.” If I had been less busy documenting financial fraud, I might have laughed for an entire afternoon.

My father moved through the house like a man who had taken a wrong turn and was waiting to see whether anyone else noticed. Vanessa’s lie to him about the visit had clearly bought her just enough time to establish presence before he could decide how to object without detonating the whole family structure in public. He was weaker physically than he admitted, still recovering, and Vanessa had always known exactly how to weaponize a convalescence—how to turn care into access, access into authority, authority into paperwork.

At dinner the first night, he caught my eye over the roast sea bass Vanessa had ordered from a restaurant instead of cooking.

“Bianca,” he said carefully, “I appreciate the hospitality.”