That evening, I stopped at the grocery store and loaded my cart with ingredients for mom’s lasagna. $68 later, I pulled into my driveway to find Emmett’s car parked in my usual spot.

“There she is!” Mom called as I walked in with the bags. “Our little breadwinner.”

The comment stung more than it should have. I set the groceries on the counter and started unpacking.

“How was work, honey?” Dad asked from his permanent position in my recliner.

“Lost a big account today,” I said, pulling out the ground beef.

“Oh no.” Sydney appeared in the kitchen doorway. “That’s terrible. Was it that Morrison thing you’ve been obsessing over?”

“I wasn’t obsessing. I was working,” I said, keeping my tone steady.

“Same difference with you,” she said with a laugh.

“Emmett, come tell Zale about your good news.”

Emmett emerged from the living room grinning. “Got a big promotion today. Senior account manager. Apparently, I impressed the hell out of the client committee.”

My hands stilled on the grocery bag. “Which client?”

“Some manufacturing company. Morrison something. They loved our proposal.”

The can of tomatoes slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a loud clang. Everyone turned to stare at me.

“You okay, sis?” Sydney asked.

“Fine,” I managed. “Just tired.”

“You work too hard,” Mom said, taking the groceries from me. “Go relax, we’ll handle dinner.”

I walked upstairs on unsteady legs, my mind racing. Morrison Manufacturing. The same client. The same proposal. That had felt like Pinnacle was inside our heads.

In my office, I stood in the doorway and really looked this time. The desk chair wasn’t just pulled out; it was adjusted to a different height. My monitor was tilted at an angle I never used. The small plant on my windowsill had been moved 6 inches to the right.

I walked slowly around the room, examining everything with new eyes. Behind my bookshelf, something caught the light—something small and black, no bigger than a button, tucked between two books and aimed directly at my desk.

My hand shook as I reached for it. It was warm to the touch. Still recording.

From downstairs, I heard laughter and the clink of wine glasses. Sydney’s voice carried up the stairs to Emmett’s promotion. “He totally deserves it after all his hard work.”

More laughter. The sound of a toast.

I sat down heavily in my desk chair, the tiny camera burning in my palm like a coal. Everything clicked into place. The questions. The moved files. The impossible coincidences.

My own family had been spying on me—and they were downstairs celebrating.

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I sat at my kitchen table at 3:00 a.m., staring at the tiny camera and planning my next move. Going downstairs and screaming at them would feel good for about 5 minutes, but it wouldn’t get me answers. I needed to know how deep this went.

The next morning, I called in sick to work for the first time in 2 years. Food poisoning, I told Marcus. “Probably be out until Monday.”

After everyone left the house—Dad to his part-time handyman job, Mom to her book club, Sydney to another interview—I started my investigation.

I found Dave through a mutual friend from college. He ran a small IT security business and agreed to meet me at a coffee shop downtown.

“So, you think your house is bugged?” he asked, stirring his latte.

“I know it is. I found this.” I slid the camera across the table.

Dave examined it with a small magnifying glass. “Professional-grade wireless transmission. Probably streams to a smartphone app. This isn’t some Amazon spy gadget. Someone spent real money on this. Can you sweep my house?”

“Sure, but I need to ask—do you have any idea who might be doing this?”

I hesitated. “Maybe. Can you also check if my laptop’s been compromised?”

“Bring it by my office this afternoon, I’ll run a full diagnostic.”

Back home, I placed my own recording device—a small digital recorder I’d bought for work meetings—behind a picture frame in the living room. Then I waited.

Sydney came home first, around 2 p.m., looking frustrated.

“How’d the interview go?” I asked from the kitchen.

“Terrible. They asked all these technical questions I wasn’t prepared for.”

She flopped onto the couch. “I don’t know why finding a job has to be so hard.”

“Maybe because you’re not actually looking for one,” I said quietly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just making conversation.”

Mom arrived an hour later, arms full of shopping bags.

“I thought we were trying to save money,” I said, watching her unpack new throw pillows.

“These were on sale. Besides, this place needs some warmth. It’s so sterile.”

“It’s my house.”

“Of course it is, honey. I just think a little personality wouldn’t hurt.”

When Dad got home, I suggested we order pizza for dinner. “My treat,” I said. “We should celebrate Emmett’s promotion properly.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Mom said. “You’re being very understanding about everything.”

“Everything?”

“You know, the job loss, the promotion going to someone else. It must be hard.”

I smiled. “I’m learning to roll with the punches.”

Emmett arrived at exactly 7, carrying a bottle of wine and wearing a suit that probably cost more than my monthly car payment.

“You clean up nice,” I told him.

“Thanks. This is really thoughtful of you, Zay. I know things have been tense lately.”

“Water under the bridge. Tonight’s about moving forward.”

Mom made her grand entrance in a black dress with jewelry I’d bought her for Christmas 2 years ago. “My goodness, this looks like a restaurant.”

“Better than a restaurant,” I said, pouring wine for everyone. “This is family.”

We sat down to dinner, and I made sure to keep the conversation light and celebratory. I asked Emmett about his future plans at Pinnacle, complimented Sydney on her dress, thanked my parents for all their support.

“You seem different tonight,” Sydney observed.

“More relaxed.”

“I feel different, like I’ve finally figured out what really matters.”

“Which is?” Emmett asked, reaching for his wine.

“Loyalty. Trust. Making sure the people who deserve good things actually get them.”

Emmett raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that. To getting what we deserve.”

I agreed, clinking my glass against his.

As we ate, I regaled them with stories about my fake Meridian project, dropping just enough technical details to sound convincing. I could see Emmett filing away every word.

“The client database alone is worth millions,” I said, cutting into my steak. “All their competitor information, market research, future product plans—it’s like having a crystal ball for the entire industry.”

“Sounds valuable,” Emmett said, his eyes lighting up with interest.

“Incredibly valuable. The kind of information that could make or break a company.”

“You’ll have to be careful with security,” Dad said. “That kind of data would be tempting to the wrong people.”

“Oh, I’m being very careful about who I trust,” I said, looking directly at Emmett. “Very careful indeed.”

By dessert, everyone was relaxed and laughing. The wine had done its job, their guards were completely down.

“This has been perfect,” Mom said, squeezing my hand. “Just like old times.”

“Better than old times,” I said, “because now we all know exactly where we stand with each other.”

“What do you mean?” Sydney asked.

“I mean we’re past all the pretending. All the games. Everything’s out in the open now.”

Before anyone could ask what I meant, Emmett’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

“Sorry, it’s my boss. I should probably take it.”

I said cheerfully, “We don’t mind.”

He answered the call, and I watched his face change as he listened to the voice on the other end.

“What? No, that’s impossible. I’m at dinner with—”

He looked around the table, his eyes wide with growing panic. “Can this wait until tomorrow?”

The voice on the phone got louder. Even from across the table, I could hear William Mann’s angry tone.

“Put it on speaker,” I said, smiling. “We’re all family here.”

Emmett’s hand was shaking as he pressed the speaker button.

“Mr. Stewart,” William’s voice filled the dining room. “We have some very serious allegations to discuss.”

The color drained from Emmett’s face.

“A-Allegations?”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart. We have evidence that you’ve been stealing confidential information from a competitor. The authorities have been notified.”

Sydney dropped her fork. It clattered against her plate like a gunshot.

“I’m sorry,” Emmett whispered.

“No, you’re not,” I said, cutting another piece of cake. “You’re sorry you got caught.”

The rest of the evening was a blur as the officers arrived and took Emmett away. The house felt different after they left—bigger somehow, like it could finally breathe again.

The next day, I received a text from Sydney. “Mom’s in the hospital. Heart palpitations from stress. She’s asking for you.”

I read it twice, then deleted it.

Some bridges, once burned, were meant to stay that way.

I finished my coffee, got dressed, and drove to the office. I had a resignation letter to write and a new life to start. The house would be quiet when I got home, but it would be mine. Every room, every corner, every breath of air would belong to me and no one else. For the first time in my adult life, that felt like enough. It felt like everything.

End!