Chapter 3: The Dynasty of Favoritism & The Crime Unveiled
The public execution at Aunt Ruth’s dinner table was merely the inciting incident, but the actual crime—the gross violation of fiduciary and emotional trust—had occurred three days prior, courtesy of my brother Tyler.
To understand Tyler, you must picture a man whose entire personality is constructed out of motivational podcasts and unauthorized use of other people’s Wi-Fi. Tyler was the family’s Golden Child, mostly because he possessed Victor’s exact jawline and a staggering inability to feel shame.
Three days before the dinner, my office phone rang. The caller ID flashed Tyler’s name. This was an immediate red flag. Tyler did not call during business hours unless a bank had declined a transaction, a landlord had posted a notice, or he was about to pitch me a business idea that violated several SEC regulations.
I was in the middle of reviewing a Chapter 11 bankruptcy filing for a regional logistics company when I picked up the receiver.
“Kayla!” Tyler’s voice boomed through the speaker, aggressively cheerful. “Too bright for the middle of the day, big sister! How’s the finance queen?”
I leaned back in my ergonomic mesh chair, my eyes still scanning a spreadsheet of depreciating assets. “What do you need, Tyler?”
The brief, offended silence on the line told me everything I needed to know. He chuckled, a wet, patronizing sound. “Can’t a guy just check in on his favorite sister?”
“You can,” I replied flatly. “You just historically don’t. So what’s the figure?”
The charm evaporated instantly, replaced by the breathless cadence of a man who thinks he has discovered fire. He launched into his pitch. It was a subscription box service. For pets. Specifically, handmade, artisanal pet treats, paired with matching owner-and-dog velvet collars. His fiancé had seen a TikTok about it and had abruptly decided this was their golden ticket out of their current lifestyle of bouncing rent checks.
“The margins are insane, Kay,” he insisted, using words he clearly did not understand the definition of. “We’ve got the branding locked down. We just need capital for the initial inventory and the custom-stamped tissue paper.”
“Tissue paper,” I repeated, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Yeah, unboxing is an experience, Kayla. You wouldn’t get it, you’re just numbers. Anyway, we just need you to co-sign a loan. Or, you know, just float us the cash. It’s around fifty thousand. With your credit and income, it’s nothing. Literally nothing.”
That word—nothing—crawled into my ear and laid eggs.
Fifty thousand dollars. To me, it was fifty thousand dollars of heavily taxed, violently earned corporate warfare. It was my emergency fund. It was the peace of mind that ensured I would never, ever end up like my mother, folding napkins to avoid a screaming match.
But to Tyler, my money wasn’t currency. It was a magical, ever-replenishing well located in the center of town, from which he was entitled to draw buckets whenever he felt thirsty.
“I am not co-signing a loan, Tyler, and I am certainly not giving you fifty thousand dollars for dog biscotti.”
His voice dropped an octave, the frat-boy charm curdling into something nasty and entitled. “Wow. Okay, Tyler, message received. No, it’s fine. I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“I forgot you don’t actually have a family to worry about,” he sneered. “Must be really nice, keeping everything for yourself in that sterile little apartment while the rest of us are actually trying to build a legacy. Keep your money, Kayla. I hope it keeps you warm.”
He hung up.
I had stared at my computer screen until the numbers blurred into a gray smear. The audacity was breathtaking. I was fifteen again, standing in our kitchen with flour caked into the soles of my shoes from my after-school job at the bakery. I had slid a crumpled envelope of cash across the counter—money I had painstakingly saved for a summer science camp—because the roof was leaking over the hallway and Linda had been weeping into the telephone, negotiating with contractors like a hostage victim. I left the money with a sticky note: For the roof. No one ever thanked me. No one ever asked what I gave up.
At eighteen, I chose the cheaper, second-tier state college because Victor refused to provide his tax returns for the financial aid forms of the university I actually wanted to attend. “Girls with big dreams just come home with debt and an attitude,” he had declared from his recliner. I had smiled until my jaw ached, and I worked three jobs to graduate without debt.
At twenty-six, when Brandon was fired for chronic tardiness, I quietly paid his rent for four months so he wouldn’t be evicted. He told his wife he had “negotiated a grace period.”
At thirty, Evan demanded a “perfect” Disney vacation for his toddlers, claiming he needed to create core memories. I paid for the flights, the hotel, and the parkhoppers. Evan posted forty pictures on Facebook and captioned the album, #Blessed.
And then, there was the crown jewel of the Bennett family grift: Victor’s secret.
Tyler’s demand for fifty thousand dollars was insulting, but Victor’s public humiliation at the dinner table was the fatal error. You do not bite the hand that feeds you. But more importantly, you do not publicly mock the structural engineer who is currently holding up the rotting roof of your fake empire.
