I sat down on the kitchen stool, my mind racing. They had somehow found my property. They had seen it listed somewhere—probably on a fake rental listing that I had never authorized. Or perhaps they had simply driven through Seabrook and spotted it, assuming it was available for rent because it looked like a vacation home. My mother, always resourceful when it came to securing things she wanted, had probably contacted the property management company I used for maintenance, Tidemark Property Care, and somehow convinced them she had permission to book it.
But she didn’t. And now they were planning to spend a week in my house, celebrating their success in exiling me, completely unaware that they were trespassing on my property.
The realization settled over me like a warm blanket. This was no longer just about being excluded. This was about them walking into the perfect trap of their own making. I could have called Tidemark immediately and had them cancel the booking. I could have changed the door code. I could have sent a lawyer’s letter.
But where would be the poetry in that? Where would be the justice in a simple cancellation email? They wanted me erased from their lives. They wanted to pretend I didn’t exist. Fine. I would let them. I would let them walk right into the house I built with my own hands and my own money. I would let them celebrate their cruelty in the very sanctuary I created to escape them.
And then I would show them exactly who Skyla Morales had become.
Now, sitting in this rental car, watching them laugh and unpack, I check the time on the dashboard. It is three-sixteen in the afternoon. They have been inside for fourteen minutes. I need to give them a little more time. I need them to get comfortable. I need them to break a seal on a bottle of wine. I need them to use the bathroom. I need the forensic evidence of their presence to be undeniable.
I reach for the folder on the passenger seat. Inside is the deed to the house, the formation documents for Seaglass Harbor Holdings LLC, and a printed copy of the text message banning me from the reunion. It is my arsenal.
I watch as the lights flicker on in the upstairs bedrooms. They are claiming their territories. I know Linda is taking the master suite on the top floor, the one with the private balcony and the soaking tub that overlooks the dunes. Bridget will take the second-best room, the one with the queen bed and the vanity lighting I installed specifically for makeup application. Kyle will take the bunk room on the main floor because it is closest to the seventy-five-inch television and the oversized leather sectional.
I roll down my window just a crack. The sound of the ocean is drowned out by the noise coming from the house. They have opened the sliding glass doors to the deck. Music is already blaring, some generic pop hit that Bridget loves. I hear the clinking of glass bottles. Someone is dragging a heavy cooler across the hardwood floor.
Linda’s voice drifts out, shrill and commanding. “Be careful with that cooler. Don’t scratch the floor. This place is worth millions.”
I almost smile. She is right. It is worth two-point-four million dollars, to be exact. And she is terrified of damaging it—not because she respects property, but because she wants to pretend she belongs in it.
I check my security app. I have cameras installed in the main living areas and the exterior. I tap the screen, bringing up the feed from the living room. The image is crisp, high definition. There they are. My father is sinking into the white linen sofa, a beer already in his hand. He looks tired but relieved. He thinks he has a week of free luxury ahead of him.
Bridget is in the kitchen opening cabinets. She pulls out a crystal wine glass—my crystal wine glass—and holds it up to the light. She laughs, saying something to her fiancé, Dylan, who is leaning against the marble counter, looking impressed. They look like a commercial for the perfect American family: successful, happy, united. They have erased me completely.
I close the camera app. My heart is beating a steady, slow rhythm against my ribs. It is a calmness I have had to learn. Years of therapy and years of working in cybersecurity have taught me one thing: Emotion is a vulnerability. Patience is a weapon.
I look at the digital clock on the dashboard. It is three-twenty-two in the afternoon. They have been inside for twenty minutes. It’s time.
I pick up my phone and dial a number I have saved as “Tidemark Management – Emergency Line.” It rings once, twice. A woman answers, her voice professional and crisp.
“Tidemark Property Care. This is Sarah. How can I help you?”
I clear my throat, ensuring my voice is steady. There is no tremor. There is no hesitation. “Hello, Sarah. This is Skyla Morales. I am the owner of the property at 42 Dune Grass Lane.”
There is a pause, the sound of typing on a keyboard. “Yes, Ms. Morales. We have your file right here. We were not expecting you until tomorrow for the inspection. Is everything all right?”
“No,” I say, my eyes fixed on my mother’s silhouette on the balcony. “Everything is not all right. I am currently outside the property. I have reason to believe there are unauthorized individuals inside my home. They have bypassed the security code and are currently occupying the premises.”
The tone on the other end changes instantly, from polite to alert. “Oh my goodness. Are you safe? Do you want us to call the police immediately?”
I watch Linda laugh at something my father says. She looks so happy. She looks so secure. “Yes,” I say. “Please contact the sheriff’s department and let them know we have a breaking-and-entering situation. And send your on-call property manager as well. I’ll meet them at the property.”
“Absolutely, Ms. Morales. We are on it right now. Are you certain you’re safe where you are?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m in my car. Just please send help quickly.”
I hang up the phone and place it gently back in the cup holder. Then I step out of the rental car. The heat hits me immediately, but I don’t care. I straighten my shoulders, pick up the folder, and begin walking toward the house.
My footsteps crunch on the crushed-shell driveway. The sound is loud enough that Kyle, who is standing on the deck with a beer, turns to look. He squints at me, confused. He doesn’t recognize me at first. I am backlit by the afternoon sun, just a silhouette approaching their paradise.
Then his eyes widen. “Skyla?”
The music stops. Faces appear in the windows. Bridget comes rushing to the sliding glass door, her phone still in her hand. “What the hell? What are you doing here?”
I don’t answer. I keep walking. I climb the stairs to the main deck, my eyes locked on my mother, who has emerged from inside, her wine glass still in hand. Her face goes through a rapid series of emotions: confusion, anger, fear.
“Skyla,” she says, her voice sharp. “You need to leave. Right now. You are not welcome here. This is our vacation rental.”
I reach the top of the stairs and stop. I look at each of them in turn. My father, frozen on the couch. Kyle, his beer halfway to his mouth. Bridget, her phone raised as if she’s considering calling someone. And Linda, standing there in her caftan, trying to look authoritative in my house.
“Your vacation rental,” I repeat slowly. “That’s interesting. Because I own this house.”
The silence is immediate and absolute. Even the ocean seems to quiet.
Bridget laughs, a nervous, brittle sound. “What are you talking about? Mom rented this place months ago.”
I open the folder and pull out the deed. I hold it up so they can all see it. “This is the deed to 42 Dune Grass Lane, Seabrook Cove, Georgia. It is registered to Seaglass Harbor Holdings LLC. That’s my company. I am the sole owner. I bought this property two years ago. I renovated it myself. And you are currently trespassing.”
Linda’s face has gone pale. “That’s impossible. I spoke to the property manager. They gave me the code. They confirmed the booking.”
“You spoke to a property management company that handles maintenance for me,” I say. “They do not have authorization to rent this property. They never did. Whoever you spoke to made a mistake. Or perhaps you misrepresented yourself. Either way, you do not have permission to be here.”
My father stands up slowly. “Skyla, sweetheart, there must be some misunderstanding. We can figure this out.”
“There is no misunderstanding, Dad,” I say. My voice is calm, measured. “You all made it very clear that I was not welcome at this reunion. You banned me. You removed me from the group chat. You told everyone not to give me the address. And yet here you are, in my house, using my things, drinking my wine.”
