On my first night inside the $4.8 million Malibu beach house I bought with my own money, my mother-in-law called and said, “We’re moving in tomorrow, Marcus said it’s fine, and if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else.”

His voice broke.

“I’m done enabling you.”

Eleanor’s composure shattered completely. She grabbed the microphone from Victoria, her voice shrill and desperate.

“I had every right to that house! She’s nobody, just a gold digger who tricked my son! I built the Drexler name. Me!”

The live stream viewer count hit 50,000. Comments poured in faster than anyone could read. “Eleanor Drexler meltdown” started trending on Twitter.

“You all know me!” Eleanor screamed at the audience. “I’ve donated millions! I’ve been on every charity board! This little secretary thinks she can humiliate me!”

“That little secretary,” Victoria said calmly, taking back the microphone, “has generated more value for the economy than you’ve ever inherited. And unlike you, she earned every penny.”

Eleanor turned on Marcus.

“You pathetic excuse for a son. You let her poison you against your own mother. Your father would be ashamed.”