I left home at 4:11 AM on a Tuesday, carrying nothing but a duffle bag and twenty-two years of suppressed rage. My brother got a car for graduating college. I got a bill for rent. That night, as my family celebrated Rowan's success with champagne and congratulations, my father looked me dead in the eye and demanded eight hundred dollars a month to keep living in the house where I'd been invisible my entire life. They expected me to smile, nod, and pay up like the good little doormat I'd always been. Instead, I wrote them a letter—not goodbye, but a receipt for everything they'd taken from me—and vanished before sunrise. They thought they knew who Vivienne Hawthorn was: the overlooked daughter, the family disappointment, the one who'd always bend until she broke. They were about to learn they'd been dead wrong about all of it.
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