Chapter 4

"Enough about money and past grievances," Eleanor declared, trying to regain control. "Ava has a room. She is fed. She is clothed, however poorly she chooses to present herself."

"A room?" I echoed. "Is that what you call it? Or is it the poorly converted attic storage space? The one without proper ventilation, that' s freezing in winter and an oven in summer?"

David shifted his weight. "It's... a private space."

"Private because no one else would willingly inhabit it," I shot back. "Ava, when was the last time anyone in this family, apart from perhaps a disgruntled housekeeper, actually saw your room?"

Ava remained silent, her gaze fixed on a point beyond my shoulder.

"Let's all go see it," I suggested, a challenging glint in my eyes. "A little family tour of Ava's 'private space.' See the luxury the 'reclaimed heiress' lives in."

Eleanor paled slightly. "That's hardly necessary."

"Oh, I think it is," I insisted, already moving towards the grand staircase. "After all, we need to understand the full picture of your generosity."

Reluctantly, the Millers trailed behind me and Ava as we ascended the stairs, then up another, narrower flight to the attic.

Ava pushed open a flimsy door.

The room was small, cramped under a sharply sloping ceiling. A single, dusty dormer window let in minimal light. A narrow cot was pushed against one wall, a threadbare blanket neatly folded. A rickety desk and a small, chipped dresser were the only other furniture. The air was stale.

"Charming," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Truly befitting the biological daughter of David Miller, millionaire."

Eleanor had the decency to look away. David stared at his shoes. Chad looked bored. Brittany, however, wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"It's so... depressing," Brittany commented, as if Ava wasn't even there. "No wonder she's always moping."

"She's not moping, Brittany," I snapped. "She's probably suffering from chronic lack of oxygen. Did you ever once think, Eleanor, or you, David, to install a proper window? Air conditioning? Even a fan that wasn't salvaged from a dumpster?"

David cleared his throat. "We... we meant to renovate..."

"For eight years, you 'meant to'?" I asked. "Eight years she's lived like this, while Brittany's suite downstairs looks like a spread from Architectural Digest."

Eleanor suddenly clasped her hands together, her expression shifting to one of performative remorse. "Oh, Ava, darling, I had no idea it was this... inadequate. We' ve been so busy, so neglectful. David, we must rectify this immediately! We' ll hire decorators, get her a proper room..."

I almost laughed. "Save it, Eleanor. Your sudden concern is about as genuine as Brittany' s heart condition. You knew. You just didn't care."

[Narrative Correction System: Physical evidence of neglect confronted. Antagonist performative remorse noted. Narrative deviation: 22%. Potential financial gain for protagonist Sarah: +$50,000 (System bonus for effective shaming). ]

A bonus? Interesting.

Brittany, perhaps sensing her mother' s act wasn' t landing, decided on a new tactic. She suddenly stumbled, grabbing Ava' s arm. "Ava, why did you push me?"

Ava looked bewildered. "I... I didn't touch you."

"Yes, you did!" Brittany cried, her eyes welling up. "You're always so aggressive!"