Jessica started crying. “My engagement! The influencers are going to livestream this! I’m going to be a meme, Mom! I’m going to be a meme!”
The Senator knocked on the open door. He looked around the empty, dark living room, then looked at Robert’s sweating face.
“Robert,” the Senator said, his voice dripping with icy disappointment. “Is this a joke?”
“Senator, please, there’s been a misunderstanding with the staff—”
“It looks like you can’t afford to host us,” the Senator said. He turned to his wife. “Come, darling. Let’s go to Le Bernardin. This is pathetic.”
One by one, the guests turned around. The whispers began immediately.
“Broke.”
“Frauds.”
“Did you see Linda’s dress? It’s probably a knock-off too.”
Linda sank onto the stairs, burying her face in her hands as the sound of expensive engines revving signaled the death of their social standing. They were alone.
Part 4: The Invoice of Truth
Sunday, 10:00 AM.
Sarah walked into her parents’ house. She looked rested, her skin glowing from the spa treatments. She carried a thick black binder under her arm.
The house was silent. The vase Linda had thrown was still shattered on the floor.
She found them in the kitchen. They looked like wraiths. Linda’s mascara was smeared down her cheeks. Robert was staring into a black coffee mug. Jessica was aggressively typing on her phone, deleting comments.
When Sarah entered, the energy in the room shifted from despair to nuclear rage.
“You,” Linda hissed, standing up. “You spiteful, jealous little bitch.”
“Morning, Mom,” Sarah said calmly, placing the binder on the kitchen island. “I assume the party was… intimate?”
“You ruined us!” Robert slammed his fist on the table. “Do you have any idea who was there? The Senator! He called me this morning to resign from my advisory board. We are laughingstocks!”
“How could you do this to your own sister?” Jessica wailed. “My fiancé is furious. His parents think we’re trash!”
“You embarrassed this family!” Linda shrieked, advancing on Sarah. She raised her hand to slap her.
Sarah didn’t flinch. She simply caught her mother’s wrist in mid-air. Her grip was iron.
“Don’t,” Sarah said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it had a subsonic frequency that rattled the windows. “I am not the child you lock in the attic anymore.”
She released Linda’s hand and pushed it away.
