“Send him to conference room C,” I said.
When I entered, he looked smaller than he had the night before.
“Natalie,” he said, “I lost my temper.”
“You slapped me.”
He flinched.
“I built this company back from ruin,” I said. “I protected your name. I let you pretend you were still in charge.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m your father.”
“And I was your daughter. That didn’t stop you.”
Mom called during the meeting. I put her on speaker.
“Please,” she cried. “Brielle is devastated.”
I looked at Dad.
“I’m filing a police report for the assault and opening an internal fraud review.”
Mom went silent.
Dad whispered, “You wouldn’t.”
“I already did.”
My parents insisted I hand over the keys to my $3M villa so my unsuccessful sister could turn it into rental units. When I refused, my father slapped me and ordered me out—and told me to step down as CEO. I smiled through the sting and said, “Dad… did you forget?”
My parents demanded I give my struggling sister the keys to my three-million-dollar villa.
“She can run short-term rentals there,” Mom said, as casually as if she were assigning chores.
My sister, Brielle, lounged on the couch with her legs crossed and a self-satisfied grin. She had failed in real estate, failed at event planning, failed at a candle business Dad had funded twice. Now she wanted my oceanfront villa in Malibu.
The one I had spent ten relentless years earning.
“No,” I said.
Dad’s expression darkened. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Brielle scoffed. “You don’t even use it every week.”
“It’s my home.”
Mom sighed. “You always make things difficult.”
Dad rose. “Give her the keys.”
“No.”
The slap came so quickly the room fell silent.
My cheek burned.
Dad pointed toward the door. “Get out—and step down as CEO.”
I tasted blood, then smiled through the pain.
“Dad… did you forget?”
Brielle snapped, “Forget what?!”
I looked at her, then at him.
“You haven’t owned the company in four years.”
My father went still.
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