“Three weeks is plenty of time to take that apartment from Elara,” my father said in a tone so detached it made my skin crawl.
“She’ll cry for a bit—she’s always been sensitive—but she’ll get over it eventually,” he added, as if discussing something trivial.
I stood just outside my mother’s spotless white kitchen, holding a dusty box of old family photos, when those words hit me like a blow.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t drop the box. For a few seconds, I couldn’t even breathe.
My mother responded even more calmly, which somehow made it worse.
“We should wait until she leaves for her London business trip next week,” she said, sipping her tea. “Once she’s gone, we’ll hire a locksmith, change the locks, pack her things, and put the apartment on the market right away.”
She continued as if reading from a checklist.
“Chloe needs the money. She has debts to settle and deserves a fresh start.”
My chest tightened.
They were talking about my home—the only place I had ever truly felt safe.
The Riverside Park apartment wasn’t just property. It had been gifted to me by my grandfather, Arthur, before he passed away.
“This is yours, Elara,” he had told me.
It was the only thing in my life that had ever been given without conditions.
My father sighed, his voice echoing down the hallway.
“The market is strong right now. If we act quickly, we can sell before anything changes.”
“Elara has always been reasonable,” he added. “She’ll understand that Chloe’s needs are more important.”
That was the moment everything became clear.
My younger sister, Chloe—the golden child—had once again burned through her money. Her latest business had failed, just like everything before it. There were always excuses, always emergencies… and always someone else expected to fix things.
This time, that someone was me.
I stepped back quietly, making sure not to make a sound on the polished floor.
There was no point confronting them. They would deny everything, twist the story, or accuse me of overreacting.
So I left.
I drove straight back to my apartment.
The moment I walked inside, the silence wrapped around me like a shield.
My grandfather’s piano stood by the window. His books lined the shelves. The city stretched out beyond the glass, glowing under the fading light.
This was where he had taught me chess. Where he had made me strong coffee and stronger lessons.
“Never show your opponent you’ve already seen their next move,” he once told me.
He had always been there for me—at my graduation, cheering the loudest, holding flowers, proud.
My parents hadn’t even shown up.
That night, sitting in his old chair, I stopped hoping for love from people who only saw me as something to use.
The next Sunday, I went to lunch at my parents’ house and played my part perfectly.
I smiled. I laughed. I casually mentioned my upcoming three-week trip to London.
I saw the quick glances they exchanged. The barely hidden excitement.
Chloe looked like she was already spending the money.
But I never booked that flight.
Instead, I checked into a boutique hotel ten minutes away.
For the next two days, I installed hidden cameras throughout my apartment and saved the recording of their conversation.
I also filed a preliminary police report.
On Tuesday morning, my phone buzzed with an alert.
Someone was at my door.
Through the live camera feed, I saw a locksmith van pull up.
My stomach dropped.
