“Don’t be so dramatic, Alysia. This is her future we are talking about. Yale medicine. This isn’t your little app gig. We have sacrificed everything for this family’s legacy. We even remortgaged the house. You could step up and help your flesh and blood for once. Surely that online hobby of yours has some petty cash lying around?”
There it was. The inevitable, jagged little knife of belittlement. My little app gig. The venture I had bootstrapped from a moldy, five-hundred-square-foot garage a decade ago was now a thriving educational technology firm. I employed fifteen brilliant minds, operated a twenty-thousand-square-foot logistical warehouse, and proudly serviced users across thirty different countries. But to the Thompson family, it was a cute distraction. A joke. Meanwhile, Catalina absorbed their worship and their dwindling retirement funds like a sponge, entirely convinced she deserved the universe on a silver platter.
“Mom, I can’t,” I stated, forcing my voice to hold steady. “Payroll is hitting this week, and I don’t have that kind of liquid capital to just give away.”
It was a lie, of course. I had that amount sitting in a low-yield petty cash account, but this was a matter of impenetrable boundaries.
The silence on the line stretched, thick and suffocating. When she finally spoke, the temperature of her voice had plummeted to absolute zero. “I see. Well. I hope you recover from your little bug soon. Some of us actually have to build something real in this world.”
She terminated the call. The sharp click echoed in my silent bedroom like a slamming vault door. Barely three minutes later, the phone buzzed again. A text from Catalina illuminated the gloom: Mom just told me you’re bailing on us. Don’t be a greedy brat, Alysia. This is our family’s one shot at real prestige.
Greedy. The sheer audacity burned hotter than my fever. This accusation came from a woman who had never clocked a single hour at a paying job, whose every exorbitant brunch and designer textbook was subsidized by our father, Eric. I knew her slick, sycophantic fiancé, Tyler, was undoubtedly hovering over her shoulder, feeding her the lines. He always took immense pleasure in mocking my “tech toys” at our stifling Sunday gatherings.
As I lay there in the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the brutal reality settled over me like a lead apron. To them, I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t a sister. I was an untapped, rogue ATM they felt entitled to access. I stared at the ceiling, my mind piecing together the oddities of the past few months. Dad’s sudden, invasive questions about my corporate structure. Mom’s frantic energy. This wasn’t just a simple request for help. It felt coordinated. Desperate. I needed a professional to dig into their perfect, gilded facade.
And I knew exactly who to call to uncover the rot hiding beneath their foundation.
Chapter 2: Shadows of the Golden Child
