Chapter 4 - Sunday Morning Fallout
Sunday morning did not bring church bells or peaceful family pancakes. It brought an earthquake.
I was sitting on my balcony with a mug of black coffee, watching the morning fog roll over the city, when my phone began vibrating like a trapped insect against the glass table.
Missed Call: Mother.Missed Call: Camille.Missed Call: Derek.Missed Call: Paul Mercer (Dad).
Then came the text messages. Dozens of them, flashing across the screen in rapid succession, turning my lock screen into a chaotic wall of red and white notifications.
MOM: Rowan Marie Mercer, what did you do to your father?! He came home at two in the morning half-sick, throwing up in the bathroom, and raving about some absurd fantasy that you own Asterline Engineering! Call me this instant!
CAMILLE: Are you seriously trying to ruin my wedding weekend?! My husband’s family is asking why Dad is crying in his study and threatening to sell our vacation home! Unblock me right now or so help me God—
DEREK: Dad is talking about liquidating Mercer Systems by Tuesday. What is wrong with you? Send me ten grand so I can cover my rent before he freezes my trust fund.
I sipped my coffee, feeling a profound, untouchable sense of calm.
I didn't block their numbers. Blocking them implied I was still emotional about their intrusions. Instead, I set my phone to Do Not Disturb for everyone except Marcus Chen and my legal team, turned off the screen, and went back to reading my book.
At 10:30 AM, the buzzer at my building’s front security gate sounded.
I looked at the lobby intercom monitor.
Standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment building was my mother, Joanne, flanked by Camille still wearing a white cashmere tracksuit that screamed just married, and Derek, who looked like he had rolled out of bed straight into a hangover.
I pressed the intercom button.
“You’re wasting your time,” I said into the mic. “The front desk won’t buzz you up without a resident key card.”
Mom’s face filled the tiny video screen, twisted in a mask of hysterical panic.
“Rowan! Open this door right now! We know you’re up there! The neighbors are watching, and we need to talk like civilized people!”
“There’s nothing civilized about showing up uninvited, Mom,” I replied evenly. “Especially after you spent yesterday telling me I wasn't family.”
Camille shoved her mother aside, pressing her face directly against the camera lens.
“Rowan, you selfish, miserable cow! You are ruining my honeymoon! Jason and I are supposed to fly to Maui tomorrow morning, and Dad just told us our credit cards have been declined because the company accounts are locked up! Fix this right now or I will make sure the entire family never speaks to you again!”
I almost laughed out loud.
“Camille, you already made sure of that yesterday when you told the entire ballroom I wasn't a guest,” I said. “And as for your honeymoon to Maui? I hear economy tickets to a nice bed-and-breakfast in Nebraska are lovely this time of year.”
“Open this door!” Camille shrieked, slamming her fist against the intercom panel.
“Have a safe flight,” I said, and cut the video feed.
I sat back down on my patio lounger, crossing my legs. Through the iron railing, I watched my mother, sister, and brother stand stranded on the sidewalk for nearly ten minutes, arguing frantically, before piling back into Camille’s white Range Rover and peeling away from the curb with a screech of tires.
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They thought intimidation would work. They thought that if they swarmed my apartment, cried, yelled, and leaned on the old family hierarchy, I would fold the way I always folded when I was a kid.
They didn't realize that the girl who stood by the seating chart yesterday was already gone.
