Jason’s chair scraped so hard against my parents’ dining room floor that everyone stopped eating. “You have ten million dollars?” he said.

January 1st arrived with a blanket of bitter cold and gray skies over the city.

At 9:00 AM, I sat at my home desk with a hot mug of black coffee, watching the digital dashboard of the escrow account I had established through my attorney’s firm.

The deadline for Jason’s first $2,000 payment was 5:00 PM.

By noon, my father called me. His voice sounded weary, aged far beyond his sixty-five years.

“Daniel?”

“Hey, Dad. Happy New Year.”

Dad let out a long sigh. “I’m sitting here with your mother. She hasn't slept in three days. Jason came over last night screaming that he’s going to go to jail if you enforce those papers.”

“He won't go to jail for civil debt, Dad,” I clarified smoothly. “He’ll just lose his car and have his salary garnished. He knows that. He’s exaggerating to manufacture panic so you’ll write him a check.”

Dad went quiet on the line. I heard the muffled sound of my mother sobbing in the background.

“Dad,” I said, tightening my grip on the phone. “Did he ask you for money last night?”

“...He asked if we could draw $2,000 from our emergency savings,” Dad admitted softly. “Just for this month. To buy him time.”

A cold anger flared in my chest. Even now, with my legal hammer hanging over his head, Jason was still trying to drain our aging parents.

“If you give him one dollar, Dad,” I said with absolute finality, “I will consider it an act of hostility against me. I will stop paying the private supplemental health insurance policy I quietly set up for you and Mom last month. I am trying to protect your retirement. Don't ruin it to save him from a lesson he desperately needs.”

Dad gasped slightly. “You... you paid for our secondary health coverage?”

“Yes. I paid the full annual premium six weeks ago. $14,000. Because I love you. But I will not enable him through you. Do not give him that money, Dad.”

There was a long pause on the line. Finally, Dad spoke, his voice steadying. “Okay, Daniel. I understand. We won't give him a dime.”

At 4:45 PM, fifteen minutes before the deadline, the escrow system notified me of a pending transaction.

An electronic transfer of $2,000 had been initiated from Jason Sterling’s personal bank account.

I stared at the confirmation screen. He had done it. When backed into an absolute corner, faced with the immediate loss of his precious BMW and luxury status, he found the money. He didn't borrow it from Mom and Dad. He didn't get a handout. He liquidated some of his high-end watch collection or cut his club memberships, but he found the cash.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text from Jason:

Payment sent, you bastard. Happy New Year.