Hailey snorted. “Please. Dylan’s got sponsorships lined up. My follower count just hit two hundred thousand—brands are throwing deals at us. We’ll cover the condo ourselves. Transfer the title whenever. As for the fund, consider it a wedding gift. We’re cashing in early.”
“Gift? I scraped for years to build that. So that’s it—you cut me out, insult me, and expect me to keep footing the bill?”
My brother finally spoke, closer to the phone now. “Sis—Hailey’s right. You’ve done a lot, yeah. But it comes with strings. I’m twenty‑nine. I don’t need you managing my life anymore.”
“Strings? After everything? Managing?” I swallowed. “I raised you after Mom died. Paid for college, the condo down payment—”
Hailey cut in. “Exactly. Always the hero speech. It’s exhausting. Dylan wants space, and I’m giving him that. Don’t call again unless it’s to congratulate us properly.”
The line crackled with tension. I tried one more time. “Dylan—talk to me alone.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “There’s nothing to say, sis. Hailey knows what’s best for us now.”
Hailey jumped back. “Hear that? We’re a team. Your era is over. Bye.”
Click. The call ended. I stared at the screen—call log showing seven attempts, one connection, zero resolution. Coffee forgotten, I grabbed my keys.
The condo was twenty minutes away in traffic. I slid into the driver’s seat, engine roaring to life, and headed straight for Crossroads. The drive blurred—red lights, honks—my mind replaying her words: pathetic, control, strings. Every mile fueled the fire.
By the time I pulled into the guest spot below the building, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows over the brick façade. I marched to the elevator, punched the floor number, and steeled myself. This conversation wasn’t ending over the phone.
That night, I parked in front of the condo building in Crossroads and killed the engine. The lobby lights spilled onto the sidewalk as I stepped out, keys still in hand. I took the elevator up—heart steady, jaw tight—and stopped at their door. Knocked three times—firm, no hesitation.
Footsteps inside. Then the door cracked open. His wife stood there in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, phone in one hand. She didn’t move to let me in—just blocked the gap with her body.
“What are you doing here? We’re unpacking.”