So when my mother humiliated me at dinner, she did not create the explosion.
She only struck the match.
That night, after I left the house, I drove straight back to base. I sat at my desk in the dark, opened my laptop, and logged into payroll.
The allotment sat where it always had.
A quiet, obedient wound.
My cursor hovered over the cancellation button.
For one second, my hand shook—not because I doubted myself, but because the old me was dying.
Then I clicked.
The confirmation page appeared.
The money stopped.
I leaned back and listened to rain tap against the window. My room was small and plain: a narrow bed, a desk, one framed photo of shipmates near my calendar.
For the first time in three years, it felt more like home than that mansion ever had.
Part 5: The Gala of Gratitude
They did not call.
The first payment bounced. Then the second.
