My parents demanded my $3 million penthouse for my sister in court. The judge played my security footage and…
I sat in the cold, uncomfortable wooden chair of the defendant’s table, watching my mother meticulously dabbed the corners of her eyes with a crumpled tissue. She was not actually crying, of course.
Beatrice Lancaster rarely cried for anyone but herself, and certainly never for me. She was just performing for the judge, trying her hardest to squeeze out fake tears while my father’s attorney passionately argued why I should be legally forced to hand over the home I had worked six grueling years to afford. Across the courtroom, my younger sister, Penelope, was slouching in her chair, completely ignoring the gravity of the legal proceedings happening around her.
She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb flicking endlessly across the screen, probably looking at high-end furniture catalogs. I could practically see her mentally redecorating my living room, replacing my carefully chosen modern art with whatever cheap trendy garbage she saw on social media that morning. She wore ripped designer jeans and a tight crop top, apparently unaware or simply uncaring that she was in an actual court of law.
My father, Harrison, sat beside my mother, looking incredibly stern and righteous, puffing his chest out like a king, demanding his rightful tribute from a disobedient peasant. When Judge Sylvia Thornton finally had enough of the opposing lawyer’s highly theatrical speech about deep family obligations and moral duties, she peered over her thick reading glasses and asked if the defense had any initial response before we proceeded further. I stood up.
I could feel my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but my hands surprisingly were completely steady. I walked over to the wooden evidence table in the center of the room and placed a large tablet flat on the surface. Without saying a word, I tapped the screen once.
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