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

Not because Vanessa was incapable of entitlement. She had built an entire life on entitlement polished until it passed for elegance. But the scale of this was so naked it took my brain half a breath to catch up. It was nearly midnight. I was alone in a house I had owned for less than twelve hours. And my stepmother was informing me she and my father were moving in the next day and reallocating rooms like a hotel manager.

I stayed very still in my chair.

“The next day,” I repeated.

“Yes.” Her voice held the easy impatience she reserved for moments when she expected the world to rearrange itself around her without friction. “Daniel wants sea air, and honestly it makes more sense. That big house will be lonely for one person and wasteful to maintain if you’re there by yourself. We’ll make it lively. Khloe’s been desperate to get out of that apartment anyway.”