Chapter 1
On payday, I grabbed a two-buck slice of pizza from the shop under my office.
My phone buzzed.
Mom: [Avery, when are you wire transferring the cash? Liam needs to cover his lease by Friday.]
I opened my banking app, wired 6,500 dollars, and hit confirm.
My account balance: 107.42 dollars.
I had to make those hundred bucks last until my next paycheck in two weeks.
I picked at the crust and scrolled through my brother Liam's Instagram feed.
He was lounging at some upscale sushi fusion spot.
Three platters of sashimi and a bottle of premium sake sat in front of him.
Location: Oakhaven, The Gilded Row.
Caption: [The startup grind is brutal, but you have to invest in yourself.]
He'd dragged four buddies along—one hundred a head.
I set the phone aside and chewed the last scrap of cold crust.
Two dollars, and I wasn't leaving a single drop.
*****
I stared at that post for ages.
Four people at 100 dollars a head—that's 400 dollars gone in just one meal.
My whole monthly food budget barely tops 500 dollars.
After closing my social feed, I opened up my bank transfer history.
Scrolling through each transaction, one by one.
Every 15th of the month, 6,500 dollars.
Sometimes, there was an extra one.
Mom: [Avery, Liam needs to stock up on inventory. Can you send him 12K to tide him over?]
Mom: [Avery, Liam landed a client. He needs to take them out for a steak dinner to close the deal.]
Mom: [Avery, Sophia's pregnant. Can you cover her out-of-pocket medical costs for now?]
I scrolled all the way back to the very first transfer.
July 2016, my first month after college graduation, my salary was 1,600 dollars.
I sent 1,000 dollars.
Back then, Mom said on the phone, "Avery, your brother's still in school. The whole family's counting on you now."
I said okay.
From 1,600 to 10,600, from 1,000 to 6,500.
Eight years.
I opened the calculator app and punched in each transfer, one after another.
Finally, a number popped up on the screen.
481,000.
Four hundred and eighty-one thousand dollars.
I set my phone face down on the table.
The pizza twisted in my gut.
481,000 dollars, and my brother was at a sushi buffet in Oakhaven, dropping a hundred bucks on lunch.
481,000 dollars, and I haven't even bought myself a single jacket that cost over 100 dollars.
Back at my desk, Chloe Stone glanced over at me.
"You look like hell, Avery. Everything okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine," I replied.
"What'd you grab for lunch?" she asked.
"Pizza," I said.
She stared at me for a beat, eyes lingering on my face, but didn't push it.
By three in the afternoon, I couldn't keep it inside anymore.
I stepped out and called Mom.
"Mom, how's Liam's startup doing? It's been almost two years, right?" I asked.
There was a heavy silence on the other end.
"It's doing great. He just closed a huge contract," Mom replied.
"What kind of contract?" I asked.
"Why are you being so nosy? You don't need to worry about the details. Let Liam handle his own career," Mom said.
I pushed back, "Then why is he still asking you for rent money this month?"
Mom's voice suddenly turned sharp.
"Every founder has to reinvest everything at the start. Are you seriously complaining about the money you've sent?" she shot back.
"No, that's not—" I tried to say.
"Avery, you're his only sister. If you don't have his back, who will? Remember what your father told you before he passed?" Mom pressed.
Those words hit me like a needle, piercing right through my weakest spot.
The bitter memory surged back.
Three years ago, in the ICU.
In his final moments, he clutched my hand, his voice drifting toward me as if from another world.
"Avery, take care of your mom and your brother," he said.
I said okay.
Just another "okay."
I hung up, not asking anything else.
I trudged back to my shoebox apartment—a micro-studio that barely fit a twin bed and a rickety desk.
The rent? 1800 dollars a month.
In Oakhaven, that kind of money only gets you a tiny cubicle with paper-thin walls.
I sat on the edge of my bed and scrolled through Liam's social media feed.
Sushi, high-end BBQ, bars, escape rooms.
Three days ago, he posted a pair of sneakers.
A luxury collab. I checked the retail price.
630 dollars.
I tossed my phone onto the sheets and stared at the jagged crack snaking across the ceiling.
481,000 dollars.
Suddenly, that number felt even more glaring than the structural damage above me.