But now that it was here, something inside me settled into place.
“The house on Sterling Heights,” James said, still unaware of the disaster he had just walked into. He accepted a champagne flute from a passing server as though this was ordinary conversation. “The one Sophia bought in 2016. Gorgeous craftsman home. That mountain view is incredible. I stayed there last time I was in town.”
For a second, the air around us seemed to tighten.
Brooke spoke first, disbelief sharpening her voice.
“Sophia doesn’t own a house,” she said with a small laugh. “She rents that apartment near the university. You know, the one with the terrible parking?”
“I rented that apartment,” I corrected calmly. “For about two years during my PhD program. Then I bought the house on Sterling Heights. That was eight years ago.”
I watched the words land.
My father’s hand tightened around his champagne flute so hard I half-expected the glass to break.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice soft but brittle.
“I’m talking about the five-bedroom craftsman house I bought for one-point-two-two million dollars in June 2016,” I said evenly. “The one currently valued around one-point-five million based on recent market comparisons.”
