“At my sister’s lavish wedding, my parents insisted that I give up my penthouse for their new family. When I declined, she struck me harshly in front of 200 people. Everyone began laughing. I did not cry. I picked the revenge that would permanently silence them.” The champagne flute trembled in my palm as I watched my sister, Sabrina, glide across the marble floor of the Ritz-Carlton’s grand ballroom. Her custom Vera Wang gown trailed behind her like liquid silk. Two hundred people had arrived to witness her fairy-tale wedding to Derek, a brilliant investment banker she had met only eight months before. I couldn’t help but notice the irony: she was marrying for money while demanding mine. I’m Vivien, 32 years old, and I’ve worked incredibly hard to be where I am now. While Sabrina was busy playing house with various lovers in her 20s, I was pulling all-nighters in law school and working 70-hour weeks at a top Manhattan firm. Five years ago, I took the biggest risk of my life by establishing my own firm, focusing on business litigation. It paid off spectacularly. Last year, I concluded a settlement that allowed me to acquire a penthouse overlooking Central Park—the same penthouse everyone now claimed belonged to them. “Vivien, darling, you look absolutely radiant,” my mother, Diane, approached with her typical phony smile, the one she saved for when she wanted something. “We need to have a little family chat.” My stomach sank. “Family chats” in the Morrison household were never good news. “Mom, it’s Sabrina’s wedding day. Can’t whatever this is wait?” “Actually, no,” my father, Robert, appeared beside her, his expression harsh. “We’ve been discussing your living situation.” “My living situation?” I sat down, realizing I needed both hands free. “What about it?” “Well, honey,” my mom’s voice took on that sickeningly sweet tone, “you know how Sabrina and Derek are starting their family. They’re going to need more space than that tiny apartment Derek has been renting.” I blinked. “They’re not even pregnant yet, Mom.” “But they will be soon,” Sabrina’s voice echoed as she joined our little circle, her new husband’s arm around her waist. “We’re planning to start trying right away.” “Congratulations,” I murmured cautiously. “I’m sure you’ll find a lovely place.” “We already have,” Sabrina replied, her smile bright. “We want your penthouse.” The words struck me like a physical blow. “Excuse me?” “Now Vivien, before you get all defensive,” Dad jumped in, his voice taking on that patronizing tone, “think about this logically. You’re a single woman; you don’t need all that space. Sabrina and Derek, on the other hand, are starting a family.” “You want me to give up my home?” I couldn’t believe it. The home I had worked for years to afford. “Not give up,” Mom corrected hastily. “Trade. You could take Derek’s apartment. It’s perfectly adequate for one person.” “A 600-square-foot studio in Queens?” I asked flatly. “You want me to trade my three-bedroom penthouse on the Upper West Side for a studio in Queens?” Watch: [in comment] – Made with AI