I answered on the second ring and put it on speaker, because I was done being afraid of their voices.
I didn’t say hello.
I just listened to her breathing—ragged, furious.
“You liar,” she hissed.
Her tone wasn’t shocked.
It wasn’t apologetic.
It was greedy.
“You manipulative little liar.”
“Hello, Madison,” I said calmly.
“I’m looking at the Christie’s catalog,” she snapped. “It’s right there. Vesper. That’s you? You’re Vesper?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And this—this ‘doodle’ is worth forty-five thousand dollars?”
“Conservatively,” I replied.
I expected silence.
A stunned pause.
A moment where she realized she’d publicly mocked a piece of art worth more than most people’s cars.
But Madison didn’t do realization.
She did entitlement.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” she said, voice rising. “All this time you let Mom and Dad pay for dinners when they visited while you were sitting on—on what? Millions? Do you know how sick that is?”
“I never asked for money,” I said. “I refused it.”
“You hid assets,” she snapped, using business language like a costume. “You’re part of this family. That means your success is our success.”
I closed my eyes briefly, picturing her face—the tension in her jaw, the bright anger in her eyes, the way she always looked like she was trying to win a competition no one else agreed to play.
“We supported you,” she continued. “We tolerated your little hobby. That makes us investors.”
I felt something shift in me, settling into place.
They didn’t want a relationship.
They wanted a return.
“So you want the sketch back?” I asked.
Madison laughed, harsh and sharp.
“No, Mila. I want my cut. You’re going to sign over the rights to your work for Dad’s branding. Just like you planned. And then we’re going to talk about back pay for the years we supported you.”
Back pay.
As if my humiliation was a service they’d subscribed to.
“You don’t get to become rich on our watch and leave us behind,” she said, breathing hard.
I opened my eyes.
My studio looked different suddenly—less like a refuge, more like a boardroom.
I wasn’t talking to my sister.
I was talking to someone attempting to claim my assets.
“I wasn’t hiding,” I said, and my voice dropped lower, steadier. “I was protecting myself. And you just proved exactly why.”
I hung up.
The screen went black.
The air in the room felt electric.
Austin didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he said quietly, “She thinks this is a family fight.”
“It’s not,” I replied. “It’s a hostile takeover attempt.”
And I didn’t do what I used to do.
I didn’t rush to explain myself.
I didn’t try to soothe.
I didn’t chase their approval like it was oxygen.
I opened a new browser tab and searched: Sterling & Associates, Intellectual Property Litigation, Chicago.
They were known for being aggressive. Efficient. Expensive.
Their retainer was $5,000.
I paid it without blinking.
Thirty minutes later, I was on a video call with a senior partner who looked like he ate complicated cases for breakfast.
I didn’t talk about childhood pain.
I didn’t mention dinners and snubs and basement years.
I spoke in facts, because facts don’t beg.
“My name is Mila Warren,” I said. “Professionally, I work under the name Vesper.”
The lawyer nodded slightly.
“My father’s company, Richard Realy, is currently using branding materials created by me five years ago,” I continued. “Logo, website headers, and design assets. There was no contract. No payment. No transfer of copyright. I am revoking any implied license effective immediately.”
His expression stayed calm, but his interest sharpened.
“Do you have evidence you created the materials?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Original files. Metadata. Email threads.”
“Good,” he replied. “And what outcome do you want?”
I looked around my studio—the canvases, the work, the life I’d built without them.
“Cease and desist,” I said. “Forty-eight hours to remove my work from all physical and digital assets. If they miss it, we pursue retroactive licensing fees at current market rates.”
The lawyer nodded again, as if he’d been waiting for someone to finally say something like that.
“Understood,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said, and I stood.
I walked to the storage closet in the back and pulled out a dusty cardboard box labeled RETURNS.
Inside were gifts I’d tried to give them over the years.
Small paintings.
Charcoal portraits.
Hand-painted silk scarves.
Every item had been returned, ignored, abandoned at restaurants, or left behind as “clutter.”
I pulled out a small oil painting of the Chicago skyline—one my mother had handed back last Christmas with a polite grimace.
“We don’t have room for this,” she’d said, like art was a mess.