When The Tables Turned

2. Debt

“You— ! I won’t do it…! Tell the maids to clean!!”

“There are no maids tonight, Danika,”

Elliot called out, his voice smooth and dangerously casual as he leaned against the edge of the marble bar, watching her storm toward the grand staircase. “I gave the staff the week off. It’s a holiday, remember? Or did you forget that celebration usually requires some staff to actually be around?”

He took another slow sip of his whiskey, letting the sharp burn settle before he pushed himself off the counter and started walking after her, his footsteps echoing heavily against the marble floor.

“And you might want to reconsider stomping up those stairs with your shoes tracked in cake frosting,” he added, his tone dropping an octave, losing every pretense of the polite, accommodating younger brother he had forced himself to play for the past ten years. “Because if a single drop of that mess touches the imported runner, you’ll be scrubbing it out with a toothbrush by sunrise.”

When she reached the second-floor landing and tried to slam her bedroom door shut, a heavy hand caught the polished wood just an inch before the latch clicked, stopping it cold. Elliot pushed the door open effortlessly, stepping into her private sanctuary without an ounce of hesitation—a space he had never been allowed to enter without permission during all those years of walking on eggshells.

He didn’t care about her designer clothes strewn across the chaise lounge or the vanity covered in high-end cosmetics. He simply locked his gaze onto her wide, furious eyes, the distance between them closing until she was forced to step back against her own bed.

“The old rules are dead, sister,” Elliot whispered, leaning in just enough to make the alcohol on her breath mingle with the sudden, freezing realization washing over her face. “You don't get to run away to your room when things don't go your way anymore. Pick up the broom, or I start liquidating your trust fund to pay for the professional cleaners. Your choice.”

“Fine…! Just let me change first…!”

Elliot watched her snatch her pajamas, the childish defiance in her movements transparent and pathetic. He didn't move from the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression remaining an impassive wall of cold authority.

"Take all the time you need to change," he said, his voice dropping into a low, mocking cadence as she hurried past him. "Just remember, the clock is ticking. When you walk out of that bathroom, you're stepping back down into the living room. And I expect to see a broom in your hand."

The heavy wooden door of the en-suite slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place with a sharp, definitive snap.

Elliot didn't flinch at the noise. He pushed off the doorframe, letting his gaze sweep over her chaotic bedroom—the scattered designer labels, the carelessly discarded jewelry, the entire shrine to a pampered existence built on the backs of everyone else's misery. For ten years, he had lived in the shadow of this room, tiptoeing around her moods, swallowing his pride, and letting her believe she was untouchable.

He walked over to her vanity, picked up a heavy crystal perfume bottle, and turned it over in his hand before setting it back down with a soft, deliberate clink. Let her lock herself in the bathroom. Let her scream into a pillow or throw a tantrum until her throat was raw. The illusion of her absolute dominance in this house was shattered for good.

He strolled leisurely back out to the hallway and down the grand staircase, stepping over the shattered glass and ruined cake without a single ounce of pity. Walking over to the utility closet by the back service entrance, he pulled out a broom and a dustpan, carrying them back into the center of the devastated living room.

He placed them right at the foot of the stairs, standing in the wreckage with his hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for the bathroom door to open.