Eleven relatives laughed, agreeing that I would humiliate them.
They had no idea I owned the venue.
So I made one call that ended everything.
The headache had been pulsing behind my left eye since three o’clock in the afternoon, a dull, rhythmic throb that felt almost like a warning. I was curled up on the chaise lounge in my home office, the one room in the house that truly felt like mine, wrapped in the weighted blanket that usually managed to ground me.
I had been battling a nasty bout of the flu for three days, and my body felt like it was made of lead and broken glass. Every joint ached. Even the soft glow of the desk lamp felt like an assault on my senses.
Outside the window, the quiet American suburb was settling into evening. A neighbor’s porch light flickered on across the street. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once and then went silent. It should have been the kind of ordinary, peaceful night people imagine when they think of a stable life.
I reached for my mug of ginger tea, my hand trembling slightly as I pulled it toward me.
I just needed one night of peace.
One night where the demands of my hidden empire did not clash with the fragile reality of my family life.
But peace is a luxury that people like my sister-in-law Cassandra do not believe anyone else deserves.
My phone, resting face up on the mahogany side table, suddenly vibrated.
Then it vibrated again.
