From San Diego, the villa became a war room I commanded by cursor. My father’s laugh when he tore down the legal notice echoed through my headphones, that familiar, dismissive chuckle that had once shrunk me to the size of a sulking child. Olivia’s voice floated in and out of the feeds, already redecorating my life in her mind, her children racing their bikes down my hallway. I let them. I watched them fill my drawers, stock my fridge, hang their coats on the hooks James had installed. I waited until their presence was undeniable, until their delusion was recorded from six angles. Then, with a single click, I shut the villa’s veins. Power died. Heat slipped away. My voice—steady, almost gentle—poured from the speakers, counting down their hour. On the third call, when I finally answered, my father’s tone had changed. The word “please” hovered on his tongue, unfinished, the sound of a man realizing the ground beneath him was not entitlement but ai… Continues…