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And Kristen’s expression said she had already moved in.

She was mid-twenties and still wore the same easy entitlement she’d worn at sixteen. Her hair was styled just-so, her makeup was the kind that took time and money, and her perfume—sweet and cheap in a way that always gave me headaches—floated around her like a boundary she expected everyone else to respect even as she walked straight over theirs. She held her glass aloft, strolling slowly as if she were giving herself a tour.

“Hey, Denise,” she continued, loud enough to pull the attention of everyone within ten feet. “Your company’s doing great, right? Managing a place this luxurious all by yourself must be a hassle.”

I watched my aunt’s smile freeze mid-laugh. I watched one of my cousins lower a plate he’d been reaching for, as if sudden movement might make things worse. The air changed—still warm, but heavier, like a door had been closed somewhere.

Kristen tilted her head, feigning sweetness. “I’ll live here for you. You don’t need rent from me, obviously. We’re family.”

My fingers tightened around my own glass. Champagne bubbled softly against the crystal, oblivious. I set it down before I could crush it.

“Kristen,” I said, keeping my voice level, “stop joking.”

It was reflex, really—an old habit from childhood, where if you acted like Kristen’s behavior was a joke you could pretend it didn’t matter, and if you pretended it didn’t matter, you could sometimes survive it.

But Kristen’s smile didn’t flicker.

“This is my house,” I said, and the coldness in my voice surprised even me. “It’s not a place for you to live.”

Before Kristen could respond, my father moved. Robert Parker had always had a talent for turning private disagreements into public lessons. He stepped into the center of the room like he was taking a stage, shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes already narrowed in anticipation of my compliance.

“Denise,” he said, “watch your tone.”