“Initiate Protocol Zero,” I said, voice hoarse but unwavering.

A long silence followed. Protocol Zero was nuclear—my personal contingency plan, drafted years ago as a grim joke: a “break-glass-in-case-of-emergency” file for if I ever tired of being the family ATM. It severed every financial artery connecting me to them.

“Are you sure, Boss?” Michael asked softly. “This scorches the earth. There’s no coming back from Zero.”

“Burn it,” I said, staring at the sterile ceiling tiles. “Burn it all. Assets, credit lines, the company. Start with everything.”

“Understood,” he replied, snapping into the crisp professionalism I had trained him for. “Executing now.”

I spent the next week in my downtown penthouse—a property my parents didn’t know existed. They thought I lived in a modest rental duplex, struggling to make ends meet. I blocked their numbers, muted their social media, and disappeared into quiet luxury: high-thread-count sheets, room service, the city’s pulse below my floor-to-ceiling windows.

Meanwhile, my money screamed.

By Tuesday, my parents had gone to the country club for brunch, ready to brag about Adele, to relive their “perfect evening.” When my father swiped his Centurion Black Card for the $400 bill, the waiter’s face drained of color.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling,” the waiter announced loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. “The card has been declined. Issuer reports it as ‘Lost or Stolen’ by the primary account holder.”

Dad turned purple with rage, oblivious that I was the account holder; he was merely authorized.

By Wednesday, a flatbed truck rolled up to the circular driveway. The repo men hooked the Mercedes S-Class and my father’s vintage Mustang. My mother shrieked from the porch, waving her phone like a weapon, shouting that it was a mistake, that Chloe was CEO.

“These vehicles are leased by Titanium Holdings,” the lead repo man said, clipboard rigid. “Lease terminated for violation of contract clauses. Step away, ma’am.”

Thursday brought blackouts: first the power, then the water, then the internet.

They called. They texted.

User Busy.

I sat on my balcony, wrapped in a cashmere throw, watching New York glitter below. I imagined them, lost in their dark mansion, confused and furious, sweating in the summer heat, blaming the world for their sudden misfortune.