Chapter 6 - Stranded at Terminal 4
Back at Los Angeles International Airport, the reality of their situation was settling over the remaining Miller family like a toxic smog.
They were currently camped out near the baggage claim on the lower level, surrounded by six oversized suitcases. Four of those suitcases belonged to Jessica, packed with evening gowns, designer bikinis, and matching hats meant for photo shoots that would never happen.
"My card is declined," Richard whispered, staring at the screen of an airline ticketing kiosk in disbelief. His face was gray. "How can it be declined? There was four thousand dollars in the checking account this morning!"
"Try the other one!" Eleanor urged, wringing her hands until her knuckles were white. "Try the Chase card!"
"That was Rose’s account!" Richard hissed, looking around nervously to see if anyone was watching them. "She froze it! Everything is tied to her name!"
"Daddy, do something!" Jessica wailed from atop a luggage trolley. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks in jagged black streaks, ruining her $200 foundation. "Kyle texted me thirty minutes ago! He asked if we landed yet! What am I supposed to tell him? That my sister stranded us like homeless people?!"
"Shut up, Jessica!" Richard suddenly snapped, his temper finally fraying beyond control.
Jessica gasped, flinching backward. Richard had never, in twenty-six years, raised his voice to his youngest daughter.
"Richard, don't take it out on her!" Eleanor cried defensively. "She’s the victim here! Rose attacked her—"
"Rose didn't attack anyone!" Richard barked, rubbing his temples where a ferocious migraine was pulsing. "Jessica slapped her in front of fifty people! I saw it, Eleanor! You saw it!"
"She provoked me!" Jessica shrieked. "She told me I couldn't buy wine! She was treating me like a child!"
"And now we're stuck in Los Angeles with thirty-eight dollars between our personal accounts and four hundred dollars of luggage fees!" Richard roared, waving his declined credit card in her face. "Do you have any idea what last-minute flights to Hawaii cost today? Twelve hundred dollars a ticket for basic economy! We don't have five thousand dollars, Jessica! We don't have the money for the hotel!"
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the three of them.
For years, the fiction had been maintained. Richard was the patriarch. Eleanor was the refined matriarch. Jessica was the promising young socialite. They lived in a nice four-bedroom home in Orange County, drove leased European sedans, and attended charity galas.
Except none of it was theirs.
The mortgage was paid from Rose’s automated wire transfer every month. The lease on the BMW was paid by Rose’s corporate bonus. The luxury lifestyle they flaunted to their neighbors was entirely subsidized by the daughter they treated like an unwelcome tenant in their lives.
Without Rose, they were broke.
Jessica’s phone chimed. The screen displayed an incoming FaceTime call: **Kyle ❤️**.
Panic instantly flashed across Jessica’s face. "Oh God. It’s him. What do I do? What do I say?"
"Answer it," Eleanor urged desperately. "Tell him what happened! He has private jets, Jessica! His father owns shopping centers! Tell him Rose stole our tickets! He’ll send a plane for us!"
Clinging to that desperate hope, Jessica wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced her face into an expression of tragic, delicate suffering. She answered the call.
"Kyle? Baby?" she whimpered, letting her lower lip tremble.
On the screen, Kyle was sitting in what looked like the back of a chauffeured town car, wearing dark sunglasses. But his face wasn't full of concern. It was deadpan. Cold.
"Hey, Jessica," Kyle said, his voice flat. "Where are you right now?"
"Oh, Kyle, it’s horrible," Jessica sobbed, leaning closer to the phone. "We had the most awful emergency. Rose... my sister... she had some kind of psychotic breakdown at the airport. She stole our bags, canceled our flights, and took all our money! We’re stranded at LAX! Can you please talk to your dad about—"
"Save it, Jessica," Kyle interrupted.
Jessica froze. "What?"
Kyle turned his phone slightly, holding up an iPad to the screen. On the iPad was a TikTok video playing on a loop.
The video had over 1.2 million views and a verified creator tag. The title across the top of the video in bold yellow text read:
**“ENTITLED INFLUENCER SLAPS HER SISTER AT LAX OVER ICED COFFEE—INSTANT KARMA!”**
The video was crystal clear. It showed the entire scene from twenty feet away.
It showed Jessica screaming at Rose. It showed Jessica winding back her arm and violently slapping Rose across the face. It showed Rose standing there with dignity, calmly walking to the trash can, canceling the tickets on her phone, and walking away while Richard screamed like a lunatic.
And in the comments, someone had already tagged Jessica’s Instagram handle.
*“Is that @JessMillerOfficial?”*
*“OMG she’s the one who was bragging on IG yesterday that SHE bought her family a $15k Hawaii vacation!”*
*“Total fake! Her sister paid for everything and she slapped her!”*
Jessica felt the blood completely drain from her head.
"Kyle... baby, that’s not... you don't understand the context—"
"I understand plenty," Kyle said coldly. "My mom saw this on her feed an hour ago. She’s on the board of the Newport Children’s Hospital, Jessica. Do you have any idea how bad this looks? You told me your family owned logistics companies. You told me you paid for this entire trip. You’re a liar, and you’re violent."
"Kyle, please!"
"Don't come to Maui," Kyle said simply. "Don't call me again. We're done."
The screen went black. *Call Ended.*
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Jessica stared at the blank phone screen, her mouth hanging open. Then, with a guttural, animalistic shriek, she threw the phone onto the concrete floor of the terminal, watching it shatter into a dozen useless pieces.
***
