“We’re putting you on a monthly allowance,” my uncle declared. “You can’t handle money.”
I opened my laptop and displayed my investment accounts. Silence fell when they saw who owned half their company shares.
The Shaw family mansion always felt colder on meeting days. Maybe it was the marble floors, or the way voices echoed off high ceilings, or just the icy stares from relatives who saw me as nothing more than a disappointment. Today was especially frigid.
I adjusted my simple black dress, a stark contrast to my cousin’s designer labels, and took my usual seat at the massive oak table. Last row, far corner. The designated spot for the family’s problem child.
“Olivia,” Aunt Margaret said, her voice dripping with false concern. “So glad you could join us.”
I nodded politely, watching as the room filled with the Shaw family hierarchy. Uncle Robert, the self-appointed patriarch since my father’s death.
His wife, Margaret, forever playing the concerned aunt while wielding gossip like a weapon. Their children, James and Catherine, groomed from birth to take over the family business. And of course, my mother, Victoria Shaw, who had spent the last fifteen years trying to erase any trace of my father from my personality.
“Now that everyone’s here,” Uncle Robert began, standing at the head of the table, “we need to discuss some concerning matters.”
I knew what was coming. I’d overheard the whispers, seen the worried glances, noticed how they’d been monitoring my movements more closely lately. “Olivia.”
He turned to me, his voice carrying that particular tone reserved for difficult children.
“We’ve been reviewing your recent activities.”
Of course they had. The Shaw family specialty: surveillance disguised as care. “Your spending patterns are concerning,” he continued.
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