‘I need the money tomorrow,’ my daughter ordered, as she handed me her husband’s debt of $500,000. ‘And don’t be late,’ he added. I just smiled. ‘Okay.’
Four hours later, I was at the airport. When they came to collect the money, they found the door locked and a box. They opened the box and shouted: “Betrayal, revenge, justice. It begins now.”
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The doorbell rang three times in quick succession, each tone louder than the last. I put down my bourbon and quarterly reports, already knowing who was at my door. Through the window of my study, I saw their white Tesla Model S gleaming beneath the security lights.
Emily only called like that when she needed money. I walked through the marble hall, past family photos that suddenly felt like objects from someone else’s life. Emily at five, without front teeth. Emily at eighteen, her graduation. Emily at twenty-eight, her wedding day. Every photo now seemed to mock my naivety.
She stood there with that forced smile, which never reached her eyes again. Brandon stood threateningly behind her, scrolling intently on his phone as if checking stocks or results. Neither of them seemed particularly happy to be here.
‘Dad.’ Emily wrapped her arms around me, but stayed in her arms just a little too long.
The embrace felt calculated, as if she was building up emotional capital to draw upon again later. Brandon walked past me without saying goodbye, his designer shoes tapping against the marble as he walked straight to my leather armchair. My armchair.
I followed them into the living room and watched Emily nervously adjust the straps of her designer bag, the $5,000 one I had bought her last Christmas. Brandon had already spread documents across my coffee table as if he were chairing a meeting. Emily sat on the edge of the sofa, her fingers fumbling for the pearl necklace I had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She always touched it when she was about to ask for something.
‘Can I offer you something? Water? Wine?’ I asked, although hospitality was the last thing I felt.
