Chapter 7 - The Terms of Servitude
Vivien stepped forward, her aristocratic facade completely shattered, her voice cracking with maternal desperation for the first time in her life.
"Sienna, please," Vivien pleaded, her hands trembling as she clasped them together. "He's your brother. He made a mistake. You can't treat him like a slave! We are your family!"
I turned slowly to look at my mother, letting out a long, quiet sigh that carried the weight of thirty years of emotional starvation, neglect, and abuse.
"My family?" I echoed, the bitterness in my voice cutting through the crisp evening air like a knife. "Where was this passionate defense when you dumped me on this freezing wasteland with no electricity, no plumbing, and a rotting roof? Where was your maternal instinct when Douglas handed me a dumpster fire and told me I couldn't ruin anything important? You didn't consider me family when you abandoned me to starve. I was just garbage you swept out of your sight so you could fund Garrett's golden cage."
Vivien opened her mouth, but no words came out. She swallowed hard, tears of absolute humiliation welling up in her eyes. For the first time in her life, she had no counterargument. She had no clever insults, no condescending dismissals, and no corporate power to hide behind.
I turned back to Garrett, who was still trembling against the side of my pickup truck.
"Here are your new terms of existence, Garrett," I said, my voice ice-cold and unyielding. "You owe me two million, one hundred and forty thousand dollars. Since you don't have a job, a degree that's worth the paper it's printed on, or a single cent to your name, you are going to work off every single penny of that debt."
"W-Work it off?" Garrett squeaked, his eyes bulging. "Doing what?!"
"Botanica Global acquired the land, the brand, and the facilities, but they retained me as the senior director of agricultural operations and master distiller for the Hudson Valley division," I explained, crossing my arms over my chest. "They need manual labor. Hard labor. Harvesting lavender, turning compost, cleaning irrigation lines, scrubbing distillation tanks, and hauling fifty-pound bags of organic fertilizer across twelve acres of rocky terrain."
Garrett stared at me as if I had spoken in ancient Greek. "Manual labor...? Me? I have an MBA! I'm a day-trader! I don't do physical labor!"
"Well, you do now," I replied sweetly. "Your starting salary as a farmhand for Sunset Lavender Co. is twenty dollars an hour. After taxes, room, and board—you'll be sleeping in the rotting 1978 shack you love so much, by the way—you'll be paying back roughly twelve hundred dollars a week toward your principal debt."
Garrett calculated the math in his head, his face turning the color of wet cement. "At... at that rate, it will take me thirty-five years to pay you back!"
"Then I suggest you work overtime," I said with a shrug. "Or, alternative option: you can call Father, have him sell his country club membership, his luxury car collection, and his second home in the Hamptons, and wire me the full two million, one hundred and forty thousand dollars by tomorrow morning to buy out your contract."
Garrett whipped his head around to look at Vivien, hope flaring in his eyes. "Mom! Call Dad! Tell him to sell the house! Tell him to pay her off!"
Vivien closed her eyes, a single tear cutting a clean path down her powdered cheek. She knew the truth, and so did Garrett. Douglas Fry was a proud, selfish, ruthless corporate shark who cared about his status and his money infinitely more than he cared about a son who had squandered nearly a million dollars on crypto meme coins. Douglas would cut Garrett off in a heartbeat before he parted with a single cent of his precious retirement portfolio.
"Your father... your father cannot help you, Garrett," Vivien whispered, her voice breaking completely.
Garrett let out a ragged, soul-crushing sob and slid down the side of the truck until he was sitting flat in the dirt once again, burying his face in his hands.
May you like
I turned my back on both of them, walking slowly toward the front steps of my farmhouse.
"You have until six o'clock tomorrow morning to report for duty, farmhand," I called over my shoulder without breaking my stride. "Wear comfortable boots. We start with the compost heaps."
