The mansion had not been Brooke’s home in a very long time, but the second we stepped through the front doors, she slipped right back into character.
Ignoring the fact that she was still damp and shivering, she rushed into the marble kitchen like a woman on a sacred mission.
“Phoenix, Kendall, Mommy’s going to make you something warm,” she called out sweetly. “You used to love my soup.”
The children exchanged a look of pure horror.
“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said immediately. “I want barbecue.”
“Same,” Kendall snapped. “Extra spicy.”
A delivery driver rang the bell just as Brooke emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls of pale, watery noodles that looked like punishment for a crime.
At the same moment, the barbecue arrived.
Lamb skewers. Cajun crawfish. Ice-cold Coke. Enough spice and grease to revive the dead.
The rich aroma devoured the scent of Brooke’s broth in seconds.
Her porcelain bowls trembled in her hands.
“This is toxic junk food,” she whispered. “It’s going to ruin your bodies.”
I picked up a sizzling lamb skewer and bit into it.
“Brooke,” I said lightly, “the point of life is to enjoy it. Not to survive it on sadness and boiled noodles.”
She took the guest room that night, but she was not playing the role of polite visitor.
At dawn, she launched a full-scale purge of the mansion.
She called it minimalism.
By the time the kids and I finally came downstairs near noon, the house looked like a war zone.
Phoenix’s limited-edition collectible had been tossed in the trash. Kendall’s idol posters had been ripped down and crumpled into balls. My priceless bottle of 1945 Romanée-Conti had been poured straight down the sink and replaced with a jug of tap water containing one pathetic slice of cucumber.
Phoenix made a sound so raw and anguished it barely qualified as human.
“My collectible!” he screamed. “That was a global limited edition! You can’t even replace that with money!”
Kendall looked one second away from fainting.
“My signed posters,” she choked out. “Brooke, are you actually insane?”
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t even raise my voice.
I simply stood in the doorway of the kitchen, robe trailing over the heated marble floor, and stared at the empty wine bottle by the sink.
Fifty-five thousand dollars.
Gone.
Brooke stood in the middle of the destruction in a cheap floral apron, clutching a feather duster to her chest like a righteous martyr.
“I’m detoxing this house,” she announced through tears. “You’re all surrounded by material rot. Phoenix, those toys are childish. Kendall, those men on your walls are unhealthy fantasies. And Allera—”
She glanced tragically at the empty wine bottle.
“Alcohol is poison. I am trying to save this family’s soul.”
The live feed nearly short-circuited from the volume of comments.
Live comment: Did she just throw away a first-edition collectible?
Live comment: Someone tell me that wine wasn’t real.
Live comment: Brooke might actually be stupid.
I walked slowly across the kitchen. My slippers made almost no sound.
Phoenix was pulling at his hair. Kendall was on the floor trying to smooth one of her ruined posters with trembling hands.
“Brooke,” I said softly, “do you have any idea what you just did?”
“I freed them,” she sobbed, stepping back.
“You destroyed over eighty thousand dollars’ worth of property before noon,” I corrected.
Right on cue, heavy footsteps sounded from the staircase.
Winston entered the kitchen in a crisp suit, clearly on his way to work, and stopped dead.
“What is all this screaming?” he demanded.
“I have a board meeting in forty minutes.”
“She threw away my figure!” Phoenix yelled.
“She ruined my signed posters!” Kendall wailed. “I want her prosecuted.”
Brooke rushed to Winston’s side, looking up at him with wet lashes and wounded innocence.
“Please look at them,” she whispered. “They’re addicted to things. I’m trying to bring them back to reality.”
Winston’s eyes moved past her shoulder.
He saw the empty wine bottle.
He went very still.
Then he walked past Brooke as if she weren’t even there and picked up the bottle with careful, shaking hands.
“My ’45,” he whispered.
He looked like a man staring at the body of a loved one.
“I bought this at auction. I was saving it for the merger.”
“It was sour,” Brooke said quickly. “It smelled old. I made you cucumber water.”
Winston turned toward her.
The vein in his forehead practically pulsed with rage.
The comments went feral.
Live comment: RIP Brooke.
Live comment: She just destroyed billionaire emotional support wine.
Live comment: This woman came back to save a family and started with a financial massacre.
I leaned casually against the marble island.
“Well, darling,” I said to Winston, “she is the true mother. I assume destructive minimalism is just part of her maternal charm.”
Winston ground his teeth.
“Brooke,” he said, voice like ice, “go to the guest room.”
She flinched.
“But Winston—”
“Now.”
She shot me a look full of pure hatred before running from the kitchen.
The moment she was gone, Winston slumped against the counter and rubbed his eyes.
Phoenix and Kendall were still fuming.
I clapped once.
“Dry your tears, brats,” I said. “Kendall, call your personal shopper. Phoenix, find another figure online, and get the better version. Put it all on your father’s card.”
Winston’s head snapped up. “Allera, I am not paying for—”
“You let the rabid minimalist into the house,” I cut in smoothly. “Now you pay the idiot tax.”
Then I turned to the kids.
“Get dressed. We’re going to the Plaza for a spa day. Trauma recovery.”
The children bolted upstairs instantly.
I smiled sweetly at Winston.
“Enjoy your cucumber water.”