I took a sip of coffee I didn’t want. The mug rattled faintly against its saucer, betraying my nerves.
“I’ve lived there for four years, Dad,” I said, because I already hated where this conversation was heading.
“Exactly.” He said it like that length of time was an indictment rather than a statement of fact. “You’ve been in the two-bedroom for four years now, paying utilities and a small monthly fee to the family trust that technically owns it.”
Technically. I almost choked on the word. The building wasn’t owned by any family trust, but my father didn’t know that. None of them did.
He folded his hands behind his back in a gesture I recognized from childhood—the stance he took when delivering pronouncements he expected no one to challenge. “Eric and Shannon are expecting their first child.” He gestured toward Shannon’s stomach, and she managed a nervous smile. “They need more space than their current one-bedroom can provide. Meanwhile, Cassie, you have two bedrooms all to yourself.”
I set the mug down on the coffee table carefully, because my fingers had gone cold and shaky. “I use the second bedroom as a home office. I work remotely three days a week.”
“You can work from a coffee shop,” Mom interjected briskly, as if she were solving a minor logistics problem. “Young people do that all the time. Laptops and headphones and whatnot.”
“I manage a whole team,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and professional. “I’m on video calls four hours a day. I need privacy, quiet space, proper internet—”
“Eric has a family starting,” Dad steamrolled right over my objections. “The apartment makes more sense for them. We’ve decided you’ll move out by the end of the month. That gives you four weeks to find something else.”
The words didn’t process at first. They sounded like dialogue from a show I was half-watching, something happening to some other unlucky woman related to these particular people.
