Chapter 4 - Uninvited Parasites
At eight in the morning, I pulled my car into the winding cobblestone driveway of the Blackwood Crest estate.
The three-story French provincial manor gleamed in the early morning sunlight, surrounded by four manicured acres of limestone terraces and boxwood hedges. To the world, this was the crowning jewel of Daniel Whitmore's hedge-fund empire.
In reality, my father had paid thirty-four million dollars in cash for this property as my wedding gift, insulating it within the Bennett Irrevocable Trust specifically so Daniel could never leverage it for margin loans.
As I stepped through the double mahogany front doors, I didn't find remorse or anxiety.
I found a celebration.
A pair of muddy combat boots lay tossed on my antique Persian rug. Loud rap music pulsed through the multi-room surround-sound speakers. Sitting at my custom waterfall marble kitchen island was Daniel’s sister Chloe, wearing one of my silk designer blouses, alongside her deadbeat fiancé, Brock, who was eating caviar straight from a silver tin with a soup spoon.
Patricia sat in the breakfast nook, wearing dark sunglasses, reading a luxury lifestyle catalog while an expensive catering crew set up chafing dishes along the counter.
"Well, look who finally crawled back," Chloe sneered, barely looking up from her phone. "Did you dump your mommy at the retirement home, or is she still crying over a little scrub duty?"
Brock chuckled, spraying crackers onto the counter. "Hey Claire, tell your mom she missed a spot behind the master jacuzzi. The grout's still dingy."
Patricia lowered her sunglasses with theatrical elegance. "Claire, don't look so sour. You embarrassed Daniel yesterday with that vulgar little tantrum. We had to invite my bridge club over for lunch today just to cleanse the energy in this house. Go upstairs, change into something presentable, and help the caterers. Daniel has important investors coming at one o'clock."
"Where is Daniel?" I asked quietly, keeping my hands buried in my trench coat pockets.
"In his private office on the third floor, closing a five-hundred-million-dollar institutional round," Patricia said proudly, waving a dismissive hand. "A real man doing real work. Unlike your father, who spent his entire life sweating in grease and factory dust. Now go wash your face. You look like a ghost."
"Whose clothes are those, Chloe?" I asked, turning toward Daniel's sister.
Chloe rolled her eyes. "Yours. You weren't using them. Daniel said since he pays for everything in this house, everything in your walk-in closet is family property. Brock and I are moving into the east guest wing permanently. We need the extra space for Brock's podcast gear."
"I see," I murmured.
"You got a problem with that, Claire?" Brock stood up, towering over me, puffing out his chest. "Daniel runs this house. You're just a glorified trophy who forgot her place. If you don't like it, you can sleep in the pool house."
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I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I looked at the three of them—leeching off my family's wealth, sleeping on sheets my father bought, drinking wine paid for by Bennett dividends, all while treating my mother like disposable trash.
"Enjoy your lunch, Patricia," I said with a faint, razor-thin smile. "Make sure you savor every single bite."
