After The Black Card We Are Square

It wasn’t until after my sophomore year exams that I finally got the news: My parents, who had left the village a decade earlier to “make it” in the city, hadn’t just become millionaires—they’d become the nation’s top moguls.

And they’d adopted a girl my age—Willow.

To be “fair,” they presented us with two high school enrollment options, letting us choose. One was St. Jude’s Academy, a prestigious prep school a mere five hundred yards from their newly acquired mansion. The other was the best public school back in my tiny hometown.

I didn’t want to be separated from them again. I chose St. Jude’s without hesitation.

Willow nodded, agreeing.

But right before school started, she burst into tears, claiming she was their daughter, too, and demanding to know why she always had to concede to me.

My father, Randall, stepped in, his face etched with awkward impatience, playing the peacemaker.

“Sloan, you’ve been officially acknowledged as a member of the family, and you won’t want for anything. Just… pick the school in the country, okay?”

I let out a cold laugh, the sound catching in my throat.

“Didn’t you tell me she was just a placeholder? Why should I defer to her?”

My parents, knowing they were on shaky ground, eventually convinced Willow to take the country school spot.

On the first day of class, I practically skipped home, my stomach tight with the anticipation of a family dinner—the kind of reunion I’d spent a decade fantasizing about.

Instead, I found the house empty. Their belongings were gone.

I frantically called them. Willow answered.

“Oh, Mom and Dad?” she cooed. “They didn’t trust me to be alone in the country, so they moved everything to be with me.”

“Gotta go. Mom just made me my favorite slow-roasted short ribs. They’ll get cold.”

1

All the way home from school, I’d been lost in the daydream: pushing open the front door and hearing my parents call me to dinner.

To most people, this was just routine.

But for me, a kid who’d been left behind in that sleepy village for over ten years, it was a holiday sight.

I raced up the driveway, threw open the front door, and yelled, “I’m home!”

The only response was the echo of my own voice.

My heart sank. I tossed my backpack onto the entryway bench and took the stairs two at a time.

I went to their master suite first.

The door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

In my father’s walk-in closet, his custom-tailored suits were gone, every hanger empty. My mother’s vanity, with its rows of unfamiliar, expensive bottles and jars, was bare.

I ran to my sister Willow’s room—also empty.

All the designer dolls, the limited-edition purses she guarded like treasures, nothing was left. Even the lace bedding had been stripped from the mattress.

The whole mansion, except for the guest room I’d just moved into and hadn’t finished unpacking, looked like it had been professionally cleared out.

I grabbed my phone and called my father.

It rang and rang. Just as I thought he wouldn’t answer, a voice, sickeningly sweet, cut through the silence.

“Hello? Is that you, Sis?”

It was Willow.

My heart plummeted. I tried to keep my voice even.

“Where are Mom and Dad? I need to talk to them.”

“Oh, Mom and Dad?” Willow’s tone was light, almost chirpy, “They didn’t trust me to be alone in the country, so they moved everything to be with me.”

A buzzing filled my head. For a moment, I couldn’t process the meaning of her words.

Willow’s voice drifted back over the line, slow and deliberate.

“Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Rodriguez and Mike the driver came, too. Mom said she just couldn’t get used to the local help, the food wasn’t right.”

“I can’t talk anymore, Sis. Mom just made me my favorite slow-roasted short ribs. They’ll get cold.”

Click.

The line went dead.

I stood in the vast, empty foyer, clutching the humming phone.

This so-called home, I realized, had been my solo performance all along.

They were the family.

And I was nothing more than an untimely outsider who had barged in.

2

For many days after that, I felt like I was back in the isolation of the village.

I started to get used to the mountain of takeout containers near the front door.

I got used to eating alone in the cavernous dining room, staring at my phone.

I got used to the ever-present, crushing silence of the house.

Sometimes, walking home from St. Jude’s, I’d even have the strange delusion that this was how I’d lived my whole life.

This continued for several weeks, until a Tuesday evening. I was curled up on the sofa, studying, when I heard the familiar beep-beep of the electronic lock being entered in the foyer.

I didn’t even look up.

I figured it was the cleaning crew.

It wasn’t until two figures, dragging matching leather suitcases, appeared in the living room that I lazily lifted my eyes.

Randall and Vivian.

My parents.

They looked travel-weary, and their faces held a slight, unsettling tension when they saw me.

“Sloan…”

My mother, Vivian, spoke first, her voice a fragile, careful test of the water.

I closed my textbook, leaned back into the plush sofa cushions, and just looked at them.

The silence I offered was more cutting than any accusation.

Vivian’s face grew more strained. She nervously rubbed her hands together and launched into an explanation.

“Sloan, I know you’ve been feeling neglected, but Willow… she’s been spoiled since childhood. She just couldn’t adapt to the small-town life, and your father and I were honestly just too worried…”

“She has no security,” I finished for her.

My mother’s expression froze. She couldn’t get another word out.

My father dropped his suitcase and strode toward me. His voice was deep and commanding.

“Enough. That’s all in the past.”

He paused. “Willow is settled now. We’re only back for a couple of days to handle some business, then we’re leaving again.”

Not a single word in his explanation was a question about my well-being.

I felt a sudden, strange amusement bubbling up inside. A corner of my mouth twitched upward, completely against my will.

The smile seemed to sting him.

He frowned, pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and slid a sleek, black card across the coffee table.

“Take this. No PIN, no limit. Buy whatever you want, eat whatever you want. Don’t hold back.”

He paused, then added, his tone softening slightly but still patronizing.

“We’re family, Sloan. You’re the big sister. Be the bigger person, cut your sister some slack, and don’t be so petty.”

I looked at the card, then up at him, then at my mother. I spoke calmly.

“Got it.”

I took the card.

This wasn’t compensation.

This was the severance package meant to buy out the last shred of my ridiculous, childlike hope.

3

I used that black card with a clear conscience.

If it was severance pay, then it deserved to be spent like it.

The prestigious school I’d chosen, St. Jude’s Academy, lived up to its name. It wasn’t a place for ordinary people.

The students wore labels I couldn’t recognize, discussed yacht parties and exclusive equestrian clubs I’d never heard of, and looked at me as if I were a stray cat that had wandered into a porcelain shop—curious, but mostly condescending.

Within three days, the entire school knew: A country bumpkin had enrolled in the freshman class.

At lunch, I carried my tray, and in the enormous dining hall, no one would sit at my table. They would rather cram three people onto a two-person table than cross the invisible border around me.

I didn’t have time for self-pity.

They were isolating me; I was happy to ignore them.

My first act was to convert the money on my father’s black card into knowledge inside my head.

I called the city’s most exclusive prep program and made three simple demands:

“The best tutors. One-on-one. All subjects. Schedule every hour.”

The person on the other end of the line was silent for three seconds before responding with a tone that bordered on sycophantic.

“Of course, Ms. Sloan. Would you like us to send a car to pick you up?”

“No. Send the tutors to my house.”

In addition to academics, I signed up for courses in basic finance, commercial law, and high-society etiquette.

My etiquette instructor was a fifty-something Englishwoman. The first time she saw me try to cut a steak with chopsticks, she nearly fainted.

But she was a good teacher.

She told me that true elegance wasn’t about the designer label you wore; it was about always knowing what you wanted and knowing exactly how to get it.

I took that to heart.

The money flowed like water, but I could feel myself rapidly transforming, inside and out.

My first business venture was born on an entirely random afternoon.

I was sitting in the back row of a classroom, half-listening to a history professor the English tutor had hired to talk about European history, and half-watching the girl in front of me.

Her name was Tinsley, her family was in real estate, and she was among the elite of the rich kids.

She spent the entire afternoon frantically scrolling on her phone before slamming it face down and complaining to her friend.

“I’m so mad! I asked three different personal shoppers, and none of them got me that limited-edition Birkin! It was sold out in Europe the second it dropped!”

Her friend tried to comfort her.

“Don’t be upset, Tinsley. Those things are all luck.”

“I don’t care! I have to have it for my birthday party next week! I’ll pay anything!”

I looked down and tapped my finger lightly on my notebook.

I had connections.

During my decade in the village, to help make extra money, I had learned a few tricks from far-flung relatives who were always traveling, and I knew all sorts of people.

One of my distant cousins ran a small-scale trade operation in Europe.

After school, I used a burner phone to call him.

A half-hour later, I walked up to Tinsley.

“I can get you the bag you want.”

Tinsley looked up, examining me with suspicion.

“You?”

“Do you even know how much that bag costs?”

“Nine thousand Euros retail, plus tax, plus my thirty percent procurement fee, delivered to your hand within three days.”

I stated the price calmly, then handed her my phone.

“Here’s my contact info. Text me when you decide. Fifty percent deposit.”

I didn’t wait for a response; I simply turned and walked away.

I knew she would text me.

Because for her, it wasn’t about the money. It was about status.

At ten o’clock that night, my phone chimed. I had a friend request and a five-figure wire transfer.

4

The day Tinsley got the bag, she practically swaggered through the school hallways, which, in turn, elevated my reputation.

Before long, my inbox was flooded with friend requests from wealthy girls and guys who had endless money but zero access.

My life was cleanly split into two worlds.

At St. Jude’s, I was the “country kid” in plain clothes, a loner.

In my phone, I was the mysterious fixer who could source any rare, limited-edition item imaginable.

This fragile peace was broken on my father’s birthday.

My mother called, her voice edged with a strange plea.

“Sloan, your father’s birthday dinner is this Saturday at The Grand Hyatt. You… you absolutely have to be there.”

“Okay.”

I answered flatly.

She hadn’t expected such an easy acceptance and all her prepared arguments got stuck in her throat.

After a few seconds, she continued, “I had a dress prepared for you. The driver will drop it off tomorrow. Try it on and see if it fits.”

The next day, Mike delivered a massive garment box.

Inside was a champagne-colored gown.

It was at least five years out of date, the waistline was loose, and the straps were horribly old-fashioned.

I tried it on and felt like a child wearing an adult’s clothes, swallowed whole by a satin sack—awkward and ridiculous.

But I wore the satin sack to the birthday gala anyway.

As soon as I entered the ballroom, I saw my father, Randall, holding court at the center of a crowd, looking powerful and energized.

My mother, Vivian, was on his arm, her smile perfectly poised and graceful.

And beside them stood Willow, wearing a blush-pink, custom-made princess dress.

Her fair skin made the dress look even more delicate, and a sparkling tiara was clipped into her hair. She looked exactly like a princess held aloft on a pedestal.

The three of them stood together, truly looking like a family.

A few guests glanced my way with searching looks, then leaned in to whisper to each other, their disdain and anticipation of drama thinly veiled.

I didn’t care.

I found an empty corner, grabbed a slice of mini-cake, and ate by myself.

Midway through, I even pulled out my phone and processed two new orders.

The party was in full swing.

My father was engrossed in conversation with a couple of VPs and CEOs who looked incredibly wealthy.

That’s when I saw Willow, a flute of red wine in her hand, weaving through the crowd toward me.

I didn’t move, just silently prepared myself for the performance.

Two steps from me, her foot suddenly “turned,” and her body lurched toward me.

The wine glass arced in a perfect, calculated trajectory.

The crimson liquid inside splashed, without losing a single drop, entirely onto the pristine white suit of the VP standing beside her.

Splash.

A vivid, red flower instantly bloomed on the VP’s chest.

The entire ballroom went silent for a second.

The next second, Willow’s eyes welled up. Tears streamed down her face.

She turned to me, her expression a perfect portrait of victimhood.

“Sister… I know you don’t like me, but… why did you push me… Mr. Jones’s suit is ruined…”

Every eye in the room snapped onto me.

My father’s face instantly darkened. He didn’t even look at me first, immediately turning to profusely apologize to the VP.

Then he spun around violently, roaring at me.

“Sloan! Haven’t you caused enough of a scene?”

He grabbed my arm with a force that felt like he wanted to crush my bones, dragging me toward the VP.

“Now! Immediately! Apologize to Mr. Jones!”

I was surrounded by rubberneckers and judging eyes. Willow was still quietly sobbing nearby, and my mother was soothing her hand, looking helpless and pained.

My father saw my lack of reaction. His fury intensified. He pointed a finger inches from my nose, forcing the words out one by one.

“I told you to apologize! Did you hear me?”