Only then did my hands tremble.
Not violently. Just enough that my fingers shook as they hovered above my phone screen.
For a moment, I stared at the steering wheel. I could smell the faint leather conditioner from the detailing I’d gotten last week. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and careful.
Then I unlocked my phone and opened my banking app.
There’s a particular kind of clarity that comes when humiliation turns into action. It doesn’t feel like rage. Rage is loud, dramatic, messy. This felt like cold water poured over a flame.
I tapped into the account connected to Parker Strategic Holdings LLC—my umbrella company, the one my father used to call my “little side project” back when I was still naïve enough to believe he didn’t understand money unless it was his.
The numbers were familiar. The vendor names were familiar. The autopay schedules were familiar.
I clicked the first payment.
The gourmet catering contract. The one my mother insisted on because “people expect a certain level at our events,” as if people were owed lavishness simply because my mother wanted to be admired.
Cancel.
