Part 2: When her sister shattered a wine glass across her head, her mother didn't call 911—she locked the front door and demanded she surrender her paycheck.

For two hours, I played the part they expected.

I stayed on the floor, holding a dirty throw pillow against my head, weeping softly whenever Jolene glanced over from her laptop.

“She’s finally learning her place,” Jolene muttered to Mom around ten o'clock. “She’ll sign the payroll transfer in the morning.”

“She always comes around,” Mom agreed, sipping her tea. “Mave’s always been the responsible one.”

By midnight, the house went dark.

Mom retired to her downstairs suite, her hip medication finally putting her to sleep. Jolene went upstairs, locking her bedroom door after taking my main phone and car keys with her.

The moment Jolene’s door clicked shut, the weeping stopped.

I sat up in the dark living room. The bleeding had slowed, clotted into a painful, throbbed crust over my left eye, but my mind was sharper than it had ever been in my entire life.

I pulled the spare emergency phone from my jacket. My hands were stained dark red, but my fingers didn't shake as I dialed.

“Rosalind?” I whispered into the speaker.

“Mave?” Rosalind Mercer’s voice came through instantly, sharp and alert. “Why are you calling from an unknown number at midnight? Is everything alright?”

“I need the moving team tonight,” I said, my voice steady despite the pain in my skull. “And I need security.”

There was a two-second silence on the line. Rosalind was a logistics genius; she didn't waste time asking emotional questions when an operational crisis was occurring.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In the house. My sister assaulted me. My mother locked the doors and took my main keys.”

“Are you safe right now?”

“They’re sleeping. I have my spare fob and my new apartment keys.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Rosalind said coldly. “I’m calling our regional security director and a private transport van. Do not engage with them. Just hold tight.”

Eighteen minutes later, two quiet headlights illuminated the front driveway.

I stood up, gripping the edge of the sofa. I reached into my jacket, pulled out my spare key fob, and pressed the silent unlock code for my Honda Accord parked in the driveway.

Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out a heavy brass paperweight I had retrieved from the hallway desk, and walked up to the front door.

I didn't try to unlock the deadbolt.

I wrapped my sleeve around the brass weight and drove it hard into the small glass pane beside the door handle.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass exploded through the silent house.

“What the hell?!” Jolene screamed from the top of the stairs, her footsteps thundering down the hallway.

I reached my arm through the broken glass pane, reached around the frame, turned the deadbolt from the outside, and threw the heavy oak door wide open.

Standing on the porch were two broad-shouldered corporate security officers dressed in dark tactical uniforms, flanked by Rosalind Mercer herself.

Jolene hit the bottom of the stairs, her face pale with shock, holding my stolen car keys.

“Mave!” Mom shrieked, shuffling out of her bedroom with her cane. “What are you doing?! Who are these people?!”

I stepped out onto the porch, turning around to face them. Blood was caked down the entire left side of my face, staining my collar crimson.

“This is my exit,” I told them.

Rosalind looked at my bleeding forehead, her dark eyes flashing with a terrifying, lethal authority. She looked at Jolene, then at my mother.

“If either of you steps within five feet of this young woman,” Rosalind said, her voice dropping into a register that made my mother flinch, “you will be arrested for felony assault and unlawful restraint before the sun comes up.”

Jolene backed away, dropping my car keys onto the floorboards.