He didn’t know that the mysterious, forgiving creditor he was bragging about was the sister he treated like garbage.
“I let you continue living here,” I continued relentlessly, “at a nominal rent that was exactly half the market rate for this zip code. I subsidized your luxury lifestyle, your expensive bourbon, and your kids’ PS5s, because, despite everything, I still believed we were family. I thought I was protecting my mother and my brother.”
Tyler’s mouth opened and closed. The realization that his entire identity as a successful provider was a total, fabricated illusion funded by my charity was physically crushing him. The ego he used to bludgeon me was built entirely on a foundation I owned.
“You…” my mother whispered, clutching her chest, her eyes darting around the grand living room as if seeing it for the first time. “You own this house?”
“I do,” I stated.
Tyler’s shock finally morphed back into the only emotion he truly understood: rage. The humiliation was too much for his fragile ego to bear.
“You lying, manipulative bitch!” Tyler roared, his face turning purple. He lunged forward, trying to snatch my phone from my pocket. “You’ve been holding this over our heads?! I’ve paid rent regularly every single month to that management company! I have tenant rights! You can’t do a damn thing to me!”
I easily dodged his clumsy grab, stepping back toward the dining table. I looked at him, a cold, predatory smile returning to my lips.
“That’s right, Tyler. You are a tenant,” I agreed smoothly. “And you have been exactly three months behind on your rent payments. Do you know what the eviction clause in your lease agreement states regarding a ninety-day delinquency?”
