On My Birthday, My Parents Organized A Family Dinner With 100 Relatives Just To Publicly Disown
Voicemail from Mom: «Tiana, baby, we were just stressed yesterday. We didn’t mean it. Come home. Let’s talk about the land.»
Voicemail from Dad: «You ungrateful brat, you can’t do this to the church. Pick up the phone!»
Voicemail from Hunter: «Look Tiana, let’s cut a deal. I can make you rich. Just don’t rezone the land. Call me.»
I took a sip of wine. Rich, I thought. Hunter, I could buy your entire life with my quarterly bonus.
I didn’t answer. I let them sweat. I let the panic set in. Because they still didn’t know the worst part. They were worried about the land. They had no idea that I had already triggered the audit on the church’s charity fund.
Tomorrow, Bianca was going to find out that driving a stolen car, even if your daddy gave you the keys, is a felony when the car belongs to a shell corporation registered to the FBI.
I checked my watch. 8:30 p.m. Time for phase 2.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the GPS tracker for the Mercedes. It was parked outside a trendy nightclub in Midtown. Bianca was partying, probably flashing the keys to her friends.
I opened the remote control app for the vehicle. Engine immobilizer: Activated. Doors: Locked. Alarm: Activated.
On my other screen, I pulled up the police dispatch frequency. I picked up my burner phone and dialed 911.
«Yes, I’d like to report a stolen vehicle. A black Mercedes. It’s currently located at Club Rain. The driver is a female, late 20s. Yes, I have the title right here. It belongs to Omega Holdings. No, I did not give permission for anyone to drive it.»
I hung up and watched the GPS dot. Happy birthday to me.
The vibration of my phone against the marble kitchen island was constant, a relentless buzzing that sounded like an angry hornet trapped in a jar. I swirled the deep red Cabernet in my glass, watching the screen light up again and again. 82 missed calls.
It had been less than four hours since Mr. Henderson dropped the bomb about the land ownership, and my family had gone from treating me like a leper to hunting me down like I was the last bottle of water in a desert.
I sat on a high-backed velvet stool in my penthouse at the Sovereign, looking out over the Atlanta skyline. The rain from last night had cleared, leaving the city washed clean and glittering in the midday sun. From up here, the cars looked like toys, the people like ants. It was quiet, peaceful—a stark contrast to the chaotic desperation I knew was unfolding in the mansion I used to call home.
My phone buzzed again. It was my mother, Serena. This was her 20th attempt in the last hour. I didn’t pick up. I simply tapped the screen to send it to voicemail, then leaned over to listen as her message transcribed in real-time on my monitor.
«Tiana… Baby. Pick up the phone.» Serena’s voice was breathless, pitched an octave higher than usual, dripping with a sugary sweetness that made my teeth ache. «I know you’re upset about last night. We were all just so stressed with the church and the business. You know how your father gets. He didn’t mean it, sweetheart. He was just trying to motivate you.»
«Look, I’m making your favorite tonight. Gumbo. The spicy kind you love. Just come home, baby. We need to sign some papers for the trust renewal, just boring administrative stuff, and then we can be a family again. Please, Tiana. Mommy loves you.»
I took a sip of wine, letting the rich, oaky flavor settle on my tongue. Mommy loves you. The same woman who less than 24 hours ago had ripped my graduation photo in half and called me a stain on the family name. The audacity was almost impressive.
She thought I was stupid. She thought she could lure me back into the bear trap with a bowl of gumbo and a few kind words because she needed my signature to secure her $10 million.
The buzzing stopped for three seconds, then started again. This time it was Marcus. I let it go to voicemail.
«Tiana, this is your father.» Marcus’s voice boomed through the speaker, trying for authority but cracking with underlying panic. «Stop playing games. You made your point. You walked out. Bravo. Now answer the phone.»
«That bill I gave you, it was a joke, a parable, like the prodigal son. I was teaching you the value of money, not actually demanding payment. You think I’d charge my own flesh and blood for raising them? Don’t be ridiculous. Come to the house. We need to discuss the land behind the church. There are tax implications if we don’t update the deed today. Call me back immediately.»
A joke. A $400,000 joke presented in a leather binder in front of 200 people. He was terrified. I could hear it in the way he rushed his words. He knew that if I didn’t sign that land over, his house of cards would collapse.
I set my wineglass down and pulled my laptop closer. It was time to respond. Not by picking up, but by setting a boundary so high they would need an oxygen mask to see the top of it.
I logged into my mobile carrier’s dashboard and navigated to the voicemail settings. I deleted my standard professional greeting. I hit the record button.
«Thank you for calling Tiana Jenkins,» I said into the microphone, keeping my voice flat, professional, and utterly devoid of emotion. «I am currently unavailable to take your call as I am working multiple jobs to acquire the funds necessary to pay the $400,000 invoice presented to me by Bishop Marcus Jenkins. I am taking his demand for repayment very seriously. Please do not leave a message unless you are a debt collector. Have a blessed day.»
I saved the recording and activated it. Then I sat back and waited.
It took exactly two minutes. My phone lit up. Marcus was calling again. I watched the screen, imagining him on the other end, phone pressed to his ear, expecting to hear my voice or a standard greeting. I imagined the color draining from his face as he heard my new message. The phone stopped ringing abruptly. He had hung up.
Then a text message popped up on my screen.
You ungrateful brat! Change that voicemail now! You are mocking me!
I laughed. It was the first time I had genuinely laughed in months. Another text, this time from Bianca.
Sis, stop being weird. Dad is freaking out. He’s throwing things. Just come home. Hunter says he can get you a new car. A better one. Just come sign the papers.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. I had the power now. Every second of my silence was a tightening of the noose around their necks. They were sweating. They were scrambling. And they were realizing, perhaps for the first time, that the quiet, mousy accountant they had bullied for 30 years was actually the one holding the keys to their kingdom.
Meanwhile, across town in the sprawling living room of the Jenkins estate, the atmosphere was toxic. I switched my monitor view to the hacked webcam feed from Hunter’s laptop again. Marcus was pacing back and forth, his face a dangerous shade of purple. He threw his iPhone onto the sofa.
«She is mocking me!» Marcus roared, loosening his tie as if he couldn’t breathe. «Did you hear that? She set an auto-reply saying she’s working to pay off the bill. She is using my own words against me.»
«She knows,» Serena whispered, sitting on the edge of her seat, wringing her hands. «She knows about the land. Henderson must have told her years ago. She’s been waiting for this.»
«She doesn’t have the guts for this,» Hunter spat, pacing near the window. «Tiana is a follower. She’s weak. Someone is putting her up to this. Maybe she got a boyfriend. Maybe she hired a lawyer.»
«We have to find her,» Marcus said, stopping his pacing. «We cannot let her rezone that land. If the city approves that homeless shelter, the property value drops to zero. Zero. And the developers walk away.»
«I tried tracking her again,» Hunter said, looking at his phone. «The GPS still says she’s at the Sovereign. But that doesn’t make sense. You can’t even get into the lobby of the Sovereign without a keycard or an invite. Security is tighter than the White House.»
«Maybe she’s working there,» Bianca suggested, scrolling through Instagram, looking bored but anxious. «Maybe she’s a maid. Or a dog walker for rich people.»
«We went there,» Marcus said. «We drove by an hour ago. The doorman wouldn’t even tell us if a Tiana Jenkins was on the guest list. He threatened to call the police if we didn’t move the car.»
My heart did a little flip of satisfaction watching them. They had tried to storm my castle and had been turned away at the gate.
«We need a different approach,» Hunter said, his eyes narrowing. His voice dropped lower, the slick salesman tone replaced by something gritty and dangerous. «The nice way isn’t working. The guilt trip isn’t working. We need leverage.»
«What kind of leverage?» Serena asked, looking nervous.
«Physical leverage,» Hunter said. «We need to get her in a room. Just her and us. No phones, no lawyers, no doorman. If I can get five minutes alone with her, I can get that signature. I don’t care if I have to guide her hand myself.»
«You can’t hurt her,» Marcus said quickly, though I noticed he didn’t say no. He just said can’t. «We can’t have marks.»
«I won’t hurt her,» Hunter said, waving his hand dismissively. «I’ll just… persuade her. Fear is a great motivator. But first, we have to find exactly where she is. The Sovereign is a big building. I know a guy.»
Hunter continued, pulling a second burner phone out of his pocket. «Ex-cop. Private investigator. He does dirty work for the real estate firm when we have stubborn tenants who won’t evict. He can find out which unit she’s in. He can find out who she’s staying with.»
«Do it,» Marcus ordered, turning his back to look at the portrait of my grandfather again. «Pay him whatever he wants. Just bring her to me.»
I watched on my screen as Hunter dialed a number.
«Yeah, Ray. It’s Hunter, I’ve got a job. A skip trace. I need you to locate a target. Tiana Jenkins. She’s somewhere in the Sovereign building in Buckhead. I need a unit number. I need a schedule. I need to know when she walks out that door. And Ray, if you can grab her… grab her. There’s a bonus in it for you.»
I felt a cold chill run down my spine in my warm penthouse. They were escalating. They were moving from emotional manipulation to physical intimidation. Hunter was calling in his thugs.
I reached for my keyboard. «So you want to play dirty, Hunter?» I whispered to the screen. «You want to hire a private investigator? Fine. Let’s see what your investigator finds when I feed him the breadcrumbs I want him to find.»
I opened a new window on my computer. I accessed the building’s guest registry database, a perk of being the one who audited the building’s security firm last year. I created a fake entry.
Guest Name: Tiana Jenkins. Unit 402. Status: Temporary Staff, VA Cleaning Crew.
Unit 402 was not my penthouse. Unit 402 was an empty apartment on the fourth floor currently undergoing asbestos removal and heavy renovation. It was a construction zone filled with dust, exposed wires, and hazard tape.
I then accessed my digital schedule, the one I knew a low-level PI like Ray would be able to hack if he tried hard enough. I planted an appointment.
Tomorrow. 2 a.m. Location: The hazy, high-end coffee shop Le Café on Peachtree Street. Note: Meeting with public defender regarding insolvency.
I was giving them a location. I was giving them a time. If Hunter wanted to grab me, he would try it there. A public place but one where he felt comfortable. He would think I was meeting a cheap lawyer because I was broke. He would think I was vulnerable.
He had no idea that Le Café was also the favorite hangout spot for the undercover agents of the Atlanta FBI field office, specifically, the Financial Crimes Division. Agents I had worked with for three years. Agents who were currently building a RICO case against Hunter’s development partners.
I picked up my phone and dialed Agent Miller.
«Miller here.»
«Hey Dave,» I said. «It’s Tiana. How would you like to arrest a suspect for attempted kidnapping and harassment tomorrow afternoon? I’ll even buy you a latte while we wait.»
«I’m listening,» Miller said. I could hear the smile in his voice.
«I’m setting a trap,» I said. «My brother-in-law just hired a thug to snatch me. I’m going to serve myself up on a silver platter at Le Café at two o’clock. I need you and the team in the back booth.»
«Consider it done,» Miller said. «Do we take them down immediately?»
«No,» I said, watching Hunter on my screen as he laughed with my father, thinking he had won. «Let them talk first. I want them to admit everything. I want them to demand the signature. I want them to threaten me. I want it all on tape. And then—»
«Then you take them down.»
«Understood,» Miller said. «Stay safe, Tiana.»
I hung up. On the screen, Hunter ended his call.
«It’s done,» Hunter told my parents. «Ray is on it. He says he’ll have a location by morning. We’ll have her by tomorrow afternoon.»
«Get the papers ready, Marcus,» Hunter grinned. «We’re going to be rich.»
My mother clapped her hands in delight. «Oh, thank goodness,» Serena sighed. «I was worried we’d have to cancel the trip to Paris.»
I closed my laptop. Enjoy your last night of freedom, family, I thought. Because tomorrow the bill comes due, and the price has just gone up.
I sat at the corner table of Le Café on Peachtree Street, sipping a $7 oat milk latte and checking my watch. It was 1:58 in the afternoon. The coffee shop was a sea of beige linen suits, designer handbags, and the soft murmur of Buckhead socialites gossiping about their neighbors. It was the perfect stage for a scene, and my family never missed a cue.
Two tables away, a man in a faded Braves baseball cap and a hoodie was reading a newspaper. To anyone else, he looked like a construction worker on a break. To me, he was Special Agent Dave Miller, the best financial crimes investigator in Atlanta. He caught my eye over the top of his paper and gave a microscopic nod. The trap was set.
At exactly 2 o’clock, the heavy glass doors of the café swung open. They didn’t just walk in; they invaded.
My father, Marcus, led the pack wearing a cream-colored suit that probably cost more than my first car. My mother, Serena, flustered behind him in a floral dress, looking like she was auditioning for a daytime soap opera. And trailing them were Bianca and Hunter.
Bianca had her phone raised, recording everything before she even stepped inside. Hunter looked sweaty and nervous, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered rat.
They spotted me immediately. I hadn’t made it hard. I was sitting right in the center window, sunlight streaming onto my face.
«Tiana, baby, there you are!» my mother shrieked.
The entire café went silent. Spoons froze halfway to mouths. Conversations died. This was exactly what Serena wanted. An audience. She rushed toward me, arms wide open, tears already streaming down her face. It was a masterful performance. If I didn’t know she was a sociopath, I might have been moved.
