“Is Dad going to lose the house?” Hazel whispered.

“I heard him yelling on the phone earlier.”

“He said we might have to move to a smaller place.”

I squeezed her hands.

“No one is taking this house,” I said.

“I promise you.”

“Everything is going to be fine.”

“Go wash up for dinner.”

They nodded and walked slowly toward the stairs.

I stood up and wiped a tear from Hazel’s abandoned tennis racquet on the counter.

The anger inside me was cold and quiet.

It was the same anger that had kept me building my portfolio in secret for ten years.

I went to the pantry and pulled out the ingredients for dinner.

I chopped vegetables with precise, rhythmic strokes.

The phone on the counter buzzed.

It was a text from Harrison, forwarded through Sterling’s secure line.

*The seller has accepted the low offer. Draft contract sent to Apex Bank.*

I deleted the message and went back to chopping.

That night, Graham did not come home.

He sent a text saying he was staying at a hotel near the office to prepare for the morning meeting.