My parents arrived at dawn.
Chloe leaked the contract and sent my home address to every tabloid she could reach.
By sunrise, reporters filled the pavement below my penthouse, blocking the service entrance and shouting up at every lit window.
My parents stood in the middle of them.
My mother sat on the pavement, slapped her thighs, and wailed about her heartless daughter whenever a camera pointed her way.
My father waited for her cries to fade, then faced the cameras with one hand raised.
“Fifty million dollars,” he shouted. “She took fifty million and left us in a basement. She wears thousand-dollar suits while her mother starves.”
Phones in the crowd streamed every word. Comment counters climbed on the news feeds open across my desk, and clipped versions of my father’s speech appea
