Rick clears his throat, trying to restart the world where he’s always right.
“Well,” he says, forcing a laugh, “look who got a… job.”
He says job the way he used to say chores, like anything you do must still be beneath them.
You don’t correct him. You just look past him at the revolving doors, because you have somewhere to be that isn’t their drama.

Donna steps closer, eyes sharp, scanning the blazer, the badge, the way you carry yourself now.
“Software engineer?” she repeats, tasting the words like they’re foreign.
Her gaze flicks to Brooke, as if searching for a loophole, an explanation that preserves the old hierarchy.
Brooke blinks hard and blurts, “Since when do you even… do computers?”

You almost smile.
Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so painfully predictable.
In their minds, you only exist when you’re useful to them, so your success has nowhere to land.
“It’s been my major since I was twenty,” you say, calm. “The same major you told me to quit.”

Donna’s eyes narrow, then soften into a performance of warmth.
“Oh honey,” she says, suddenly sweet, “we just wanted what was best for the family.”
The family. That magic word they used like a leash around your throat.
Rick nods, eager to jump on the new story. “Exactly,” he says. “We pushed you. And look, it worked.”

You stare at them and feel something settle in your chest.
Not hatred. Not revenge.
Just the clean recognition of what they are and what you are no longer willing to be.
“You didn’t push me,” you say. “You tried to take my future and hand it to Brooke.”

Brooke scoffs, but it’s thinner than before.
“Wow,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Still dramatic.”
You look at her, really look, and you notice the cracks: the slightly forced confidence, the designer bag that’s a year behind trend, the way she keeps checking her phone like she’s waiting for someone to rescue her from discomfort.
She’s not a villain out of a movie. She’s a woman who never learned how to build anything without borrowing someone else’s foundation.

Donna’s face sharpens again.
“So you’re really working here,” she says, tone suspicious, like you might be lying with a fake badge outside a building the size of a small city.
Rick gestures toward the glass tower. “This place is… big,” he admits, grudging respect leaking through.
Then, like clockwork, Donna adds, “Well, you can help us now.”

There it is.
The reason they’re here.
They didn’t show up because they missed you. They showed up because they smelled money like sharks smell blood.

You tilt your head. “Help you with what?” you ask, even though you already know.

Brooke steps forward, suddenly animated.
“Okay, so,” she says, too fast, “don’t freak out, but my lease is ending and the market is insane and I found this condo that’s perfect.”
Donna jumps in, voice urgent. “It’s an investment,” she insists. “A smart one.”
Rick nods. “We just need a little bridge,” he says, like your life is a bank loan.

Your stomach tightens, but your voice stays level.
“How much is ‘a little’?” you ask.
Donna says it like it’s nothing. “Thirty thousand.”
The exact number, the exact old wound reopened with zero shame.

You blink once, slow.
And you realize this isn’t a misunderstanding or a one-time cruelty.
This is a pattern with a face, and the face is smiling.
You let the quiet stretch until Brooke shifts uncomfortably.

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