I forced a smile, my fingers tight around the glass. Proud of what? Tara hadn’t worked a day in years, living off my parents’ handouts while I climbed corporate ladders. Yet here she was, the golden child, while I was the outcast for choosing a different path.
My chest tightened, but I pushed the hurt down, refusing to let them see me crack. As the quartet played on, Dad raised a glass, toasting Tara’s vibrant spirit. The guests clapped, their cheers echoing off the penthouse walls. I stood in the corner, my stomach twisting.
I wanted to belong, to feel like part of this family. So I stayed, pasting on a smile, shaking hands, and laughing at bad jokes. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t my place. The way they looked at me, like I was too much yet not enough, made that clear. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and decided to stick it out. For now.
As the birthday cake was cut, my father stood up with a microphone. The room quieted, the string quartet pausing mid-note. Dad’s smile was wide, almost theatrical, as he raised his glass. «Tonight, we celebrate my daughter’s 35th birthday,» he said, his voice booming through the penthouse. «And I have an announcement. Jenna, our generous daughter, is gifting her penthouse to Tara to help her start anew.»
The words hit like a punch. Thirty guests turned to me, their eyes expectant, some already clapping. My stomach churned. My penthouse, two million dollars earned through years of late nights and coding marathons, was being offered up like a party favor.
Tara, my older sister, gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. «Oh, Dad, really?» she said, her voice dripping with surprise. But I caught the flicker in her eyes, the way her lips twitched upward before the gasp. She knew. This wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned.
I stood frozen, my wine glass cold in my hand, as the room waited for my response. Dad kept talking, his tone patronizing. «Tara’s been struggling, jobless for a while now. It’s only right for family to step up, right, Jenna?» The guests nodded, murmuring approval, their faces a mix of pity for Tara and expectation for me.
My mother joined in, her voice soft but pointed. «Jenna, you’ve done so well for yourself. Sharing with your sister is the least you can do.» Aunt Nancy, seated nearby, leaned forward. «It’s a beautiful gesture,» she said, her smile tight. «Don’t be selfish, dear.»
Uncle George nodded, his voice gruff. «Family first, Jenna. You don’t need that big place all alone.» The pressure was suffocating, their words piling on like weights. I glanced at Tara’s fiancé, Ethan, who avoided my eyes, sipping his drink. The room felt smaller, the air thick with judgment.
I set my glass down, my hand steady despite the rage building inside. «No,» I said, my voice clear, cutting through the murmurs. The guests froze, their applause faltering.
Dad’s smile vanished. «What did you say?» he asked, his tone sharp. I straightened, meeting his gaze. «I’m not giving up my penthouse. I worked for it. Every dollar, every late night, every pitch meeting—that’s mine. Tara’s struggles aren’t my burden.»
The words hung in the air, raw and unapologetic. Tara’s face crumpled, but I saw the calculation behind her teary eyes. She wasn’t hurt. She was angry I’d called her bluff. Mom stepped forward, her voice rising. «Jenna, how can you say that? Your sister needs help.»
Aunt Nancy gasped, clutching her necklace. «That’s so cold,» she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Uncle George shook his head, muttering, «Ungrateful.» The guests began to whisper, their voices a low hum of shock and disapproval.
A woman I barely knew, Mrs. Carter, leaned toward her husband, saying, «She’s always been too independent.» Another guest, a family friend, added, «Poor Tara, stuck with a sister like that.» The judgment was palpable, each word a needle pricking my resolve.
I kept my chin up, refusing to crumble. «I’ve supported this family,» I said, my voice steady but louder now. «I paid for half this party—the wine, the chef, everything. But my home? That’s not up for grabs.»
The room grew quieter, the whispers sharpening. Dad’s face reddened, his grip on the microphone tightening. Tara sniffled, dabbing her eyes, but I wasn’t fooled. She’d known this was coming, had probably rehearsed that tearful look.
Mom’s eyes darted between us, her expression a mix of panic and anger. «Jenna, you’re embarrassing us,» she hissed. But I didn’t back down. I’d spent years proving myself, building a life they refused to respect. This was my line in the sand.
The tension crackled, the guests shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A few pulled out their phones, their fingers hovering over screens, ready to capture whatever came next. I felt their eyes, their judgment, but also a strange sense of freedom. For the first time that night, I wasn’t trying to fit in. I was standing up for myself, and it felt right. But the air was electric, charged with the weight of what I’d just done. Dad stepped closer, his jaw tight, and I braced myself for what was coming.
The room went quiet as I stood my ground. My father’s face twisted, his eyes narrowing to slits. «You’re defying me,» he barked, stepping closer, the microphone still clutched in his hand. Before I could respond, his hand swung, fast and heavy, striking my cheek with a sharp crack.
The pain seared through me, my head snapping to the side. My pearl earring flew off, skittering across the floor, glinting under the chandelier’s light. Gasps erupted from the 30 guests, their murmurs replaced by stunned silence. I touched my cheek, the heat spreading under my fingers, but I didn’t flinch.
A young man, one of Tara’s fiancé’s friends, fumbled with his phone, the red dot of a live stream blinking on his screen. «This is unreal,» he muttered, angling the camera toward me. The other guests stared, some frozen, others whispering furiously.
Tara’s eyes widened, her hand covering her mouth, but I saw no tears, just a flicker of satisfaction. Mom stepped forward, her voice trembling. «Jenna, apologize to your father,» she demanded, as if I’d been the one to strike.
I ignored her, my gaze locked on the earring now resting near a table leg. I bent down, my knees steady, and picked up the pearl, its smooth surface cool against my palm. Standing, I faced Tara, who stood beside Dad, her expression a mix of feigned shock and smugness. «Happy birthday, Tara,» I said, my voice low but clear, each word deliberate.
I slipped the earring into my pocket and turned toward the door. The guests parted, their whispers trailing me like a shadow. «She’s walking out,» one said. «After that,» another hissed. I didn’t look back; the weight of their judgment couldn’t touch me anymore.
In the hallway, the penthouse’s heavy door clicked shut behind me, muffling the chaos inside. My cheek still throbbed, but my heart was steady. I pulled out my phone and dialed my best friend, Kayla Morgan. She answered on the first ring.
«Jenna, you okay?» she asked, her voice sharp with worry. I leaned against the wall, the marble cold through my dress. «Dad just slapped me,» I said, my tone flat but my hands shaking. «He demanded I give Tara my penthouse. I said no, and he…» My voice caught, the sting of betrayal sharper than the slap.