MY MOTHER CALLED MY WIFE “DRAMATIC” AFTER I FOUND HER HALF-FROZEN AND BRUISED IN THE SNOW, BUT WHEN I SAW THE OPEN WINE FROM MY FATHER’S PRIVATE CELLAR AND THE DOCUMENTS THEY WANTED SIGNED, I KNEW THIS WAS PLANNED.

I didn't bother knocking. I twisted the brass handle and shoved the front door open with a heavy thud.

My mother was standing in the foyer. She opened her mouth, freezing when she saw my face.

“Ethan?” she gasped, looking at my uniform as if I were an apparition. “You... you weren’t supposed to return for another three weeks.”

Those were her very first words to me. Not hello. Not thank God you’re alive. Not Claire needs an ambulance.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Natalie stepped out from behind her, wiping a smug look off her face. For several seconds, the foyer was dead silent except for the grandfather clock ticking in the corner.

Then Natalie crossed her arms, lifting her chin with defensive defiance.

“She’s being dramatic,” Natalie scoffed, rolling her eyes.

I stopped dead in my tracks, turning my gaze slowly toward my sister. “What did you just say?”

“Claire,” Natalie said, her voice hardening with venom. “She’s always throwing tantrums like this. Looking for attention.”

I walked past them without saying a word. Neither of them dared to reach out or stop me.

The dining room made my blood run colder than the snow outside. Our family wedding china was spread across the polished mahogany table. My father’s expensive silverware, which had been locked away in a felt-lined cabinet since his passing, was laid out for a feast. Thick candles flickered in silver holders. An open bottle of rare vintage wine—part of my father’s prized collection he had spent thirty years curating—sat uncorked on the table.

My mother had never allowed anyone to touch those bottles. Not even on anniversaries.

Worse still, the heavy leather chair at the head of the table—my father’s permanent seat—had been pulled out. My mother’s expensive winter coat was draped casually over the back.

They weren't just eating dinner. They were celebrating a hostile takeover.

I turned around slowly, my eyes locked on my mother as she hurried into the room behind me.