Chapter 2
Gracie gasped softly, while my mother chuckled with an indulgent, condescending smile, waving her hand dismissively toward the waiter.
"Just one card," Mom said, giving the waiter a reassuring nod. "My younger daughter will handle the arrangements. My older daughter is having a little mood today."
Gracie beamed under the praise. She opened her designer clutch -- a gift I had bought her for college graduation -- and pulled out a sleek black corporate card.
It was the secondary card issued under my primary credit line, authorized solely for her emergency living expenses while she "found herself."
She handed it to the waiter with a practiced flourish. "Put everything on this one, please."
"Of course, miss," the waiter said, sliding the card through the reader.
A sharp, high-pitched double beep echoed through the quiet dining room.
Transaction Declined: Card Deauthorized.
Gracie's smile froze. Her cheeks flushed a deep, ugly red. "That's impossible. Try it again."
The waiter swiped it a second time. Another loud, jarring beep pierced the air.
"I'm sorry, miss," the waiter said softly. "The terminal states the primary account holder turned off authorization."
My mother's head snapped toward me. The warm, doting matriarch vanished, replaced by a cold, venomous stare.
"Alicia," Mom whispered, her voice trembling with fury as nearby diners turned to look. "Did you do this? Did you shut off your sister's card in front of the entire restaurant?"
"I don't pay for people who crop me out of family photos," I said, looking her dead in the eye.
Mom snapped.
She stood up so fast her champagne glass tumbled over, soaking the linen in amber liquid. Before I could move, her palm swung across the table.
PAH!
The slap cracked through the dining room like a gunshot. Searing heat exploded across my cheekbone, forcing my head to the side.
"You ungrateful monster!" Mom hissed, her face contorted with rage. "How dare you humiliate your sister on her birthday! Get out! You are no longer my daughter!"
Gracie covered her mouth in dramatic horror, though her eyes gleamed with smug triumph behind her manicured fingers.
I didn't scream. I didn't touch my burning face.
I picked up my cloth napkin, calmly dabbed a tiny speck of blood from the corner of my lip, and set it down. Then I reached into my leather tote bag, pulled out a copy of my penthouse property deed, and laid it flat on the table.
"Since I am no longer your daughter," I said, my voice icy and level, "my lawyer will have the formal notice in your inbox by morning. You have seven days to vacate my penthouse."
I turned and walked out into the cool night air.
As I reached my car, my phone vibrated in my palm. The screen lit up with an incoming call from my father.