By the time Serena Miller realized that the air-conditioning upstairs had been turned off once again, the back of her silk blouse was already damp with sweat.

The weeks leading up to late August were a masterclass in psychological endurance. Serena watched as Beatrice ordered catering, hired a string quartet, and directed landscapers around the backyard—all presumably paid for through Lucas’s dwindling credit lines or the joint account Serena had quietly stopped contributing to.

One Thursday afternoon, Serena came home early from work due to a mild headache. She pulled into the detached carriage house that served as their garage, hitting the button on her visor to lower the door.

As the sunlight vanished, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered on, revealing a stack of cardboard boxes shoved aggressively into the corner of Serena’s parking bay.

Frowning, she stepped out of her car. The boxes were sealed with heavy packing tape, but the handwriting on the side was unmistakably Beatrice’s looping script.

Old Office Junk. Ugly Living Room Decor. Serena’s Dad’s Stuff.

Serena’s breath hitched in her throat. She pulled a box cutter from the workbench and sliced open the top flap of the largest box.

Inside, wrapped carelessly in newspaper, were her father’s leather-bound first editions. Beneath them, shoved haphazardly against the cardboard, was the framed silver photograph of her parents on their wedding day. The glass in the frame was cracked straight down the middle.

A quiet, terrifying rage bloomed in Serena’s chest. This wasn’t just entitled behavior anymore. This was the active, malicious erasure of her family’s history in the very house her father had built.

She marched inside, letting the kitchen door slam shut behind her.

Lucas was sitting at the island, eating a sandwich and looking over some paperwork. He jumped at the loud noise.

“Serena? You’re home early.”

“Why are my father’s belongings boxed up in the garage like garbage?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

Lucas blinked, swallowing hard. “Oh. Right. Mom said she needed more space in the study for the coats and things for the reunion. She said she asked you about it.”

“She did not ask me. And even if she had, the answer would have been absolutely not. My father’s books do not get boxed up in a damp garage so your mother can hang cheap coats.”

“Serena, please,” Lucas whined, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t make this a big deal. The reunion is next weekend. Mom is stressed. Let’s just get through the party, and then I promise we’ll unpack it all. Just let her have this win.”

Serena looked at the man she had married. She searched his face for any sign of a spine, any hint of the protective partner she thought she had chosen. There was nothing. Just a weak, accommodating boy terrified of his mother’s disapproval.