She actually believes her own lie.
So Sienna continues, gaining confidence. “It’s only fair that we discuss my equity share. I’m not greedy. I think fifty percent is fair, considering it was my intellectual property. Plus, Mom and Dad need a new house. Their mortgage is underwater. Since you have this”—she gestures around the room—“monstrosity, you can obviously afford to buy them a place. Maybe a guest house here. We could all live together again. Like old times.”
My mother nods eagerly. “That would be wonderful. We miss you so much, Val. We could be a family again.”
I look at them.
I look at my father who is avoiding my eyes.
I look at my mother who is desperate for comfort.
I look at Sienna, who feels entitled to my labor.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “You kicked me out into the rain with $200. You left me homeless. You didn’t call me for six years—not on my birthday, not on Christmas—and now you want to move in. You want fifty percent of my company.”
“We gave you tough love,” my father blurts out. “It made you strong. Look at you. You wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t pushed you out of the nest.”
“Pushed me?” I laugh. “You locked the door, Walter. You chose her over me because she said I made her sick.”
“I was sick,” Sienna snaps. “Your energy was dark. And clearly I was right. Look at how selfish you are. You have all this money and you won’t even help your struggling parents. You are a narcissist.”
“A narcissist,” I repeat. “That’s an interesting word coming from you.”
“Stop being dramatic,” Sienna says. “Just write the check, Belle, or I’ll sue you. I have witnesses who heard me talking about the app idea before you built it.”
“Witnesses?” I ask. “You mean Mom and Dad?”
“Yes,” she smirks. “And a court will believe two parents over one bitter, estranged daughter.”
I stand up slowly. I walk over to the wall and pick up a remote control.
“I expected you to say that,” I say. “So I prepared a little presentation.”
“What?” Sienna frowns.
I press a button.
A massive screen descends from the ceiling behind me. The curtains automatically close, dimming the room.
“You see,” I say, turning to face the screen, “I learned something very valuable in the tech world. Always keep backups. Always have data.”
The screen flickers to life.
The first image that appears is a screenshot of a text message thread dated six years ago. The sender is Sienna. The recipient is a friend named Jessica.
I read the text out loud.
“Quote: ‘I finally got the brat kicked out. I had to fake a panic attack and pretend to vomit at dinner, but it worked. Mom and Dad are so gullible. Now I have the house to myself.’ End quote.”
The room goes silent.
Deathly silent.
My mother gasps. She looks at Sienna. “What is that?”
Sienna’s face goes pale. “That—That’s fake. She photoshopped it.”
“I didn’t,” I say calmly. “This is from your old cloud account. You logged into my laptop once, remember? You forgot to log out.”
I click the remote.
Next slide.
It’s a LinkedIn post from Sienna dated one week after I was kicked out. It says, “So excited to launch my new idea, Task Stream. A revolutionary way to organize closets.”
“Closets?” I ask. “I thought you said it was a freelancer scheduling app, but here you are pitching a closet organization tool. It seems you didn’t even understand the code you stole.”
“I changed direction!” Sienna yells. She stands up. “Stop this. This is an invasion of privacy!”
“Sit down,” I command.
My voice echoes off the marble walls.
She sits.
I click again.
This time it’s recent. A screenshot from the family group chat dated three days ago, sent by Aunt Lydia.
The message is from my father: “We just need to play nice until she signs over some assets. Once we have the money, we can put her in her place. She’s still the same ungrateful child.”
And another from my mother: “I just hope she doesn’t expect us to stay long. I can’t stand her attitude. We get the money, buy the lake house, and leave.”
I turn to face my parents.
