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.
Brandon’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. A clump of spaghetti slid off and plopped back onto the plate, splattering sauce on his hoodie.
Sierra’s jaw literally dropped. Her phone wobbled in her hand.
Tracy stared at me like I’d started speaking fluent Martian.
Then, all at once, they laughed.
Brandon snorted so hard he almost choked.
“Good one,” he said, wheezing. “You get that from TikTok?”
Sierra giggled. “Omg, I should totally post that. ‘When your stepsis thinks she owns the house.’”
Tracy’s laugh sounded more like a dying cat. There was a tightness around her eyes. Panic leaking in.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “This is my house and your father’s. We pay the bills. Stop being ridiculous.”
I leaned back in my chair, channeled every movie villain who’d ever delivered a monologue, and smiled.
“Why don’t you call Dad,” I said. “Put him on speaker.”
She grabbed her phone so fast her chair squeaked.
She dialed his number and hit speaker, like she always did when she wanted backup.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
He picked up, sounding tired.
“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Mark,” she cooed, fake sweet, “Lucy is saying the house belongs to her. That’s not true, right?”
There was a pause.
I heard the familiar throat-clearing sound my dad makes when he’s nervous.