I straightened my spine, towering over her, and let my gaze go flat and unblinking.

“Are you quite finished?” My voice rang with absolute clarity. “Because the floor is now mine.”

Christine froze. Her brain misfired. A subservient victim turning predator did not compute in her worldview.

“Christine.” I took a step forward, forcing her to retreat. “Let’s clarify reality. My money stays in my bank. Your son has two functioning hands; he can scramble his own eggs.

I am not a maid, and I am certainly not a state-sponsored incubator for your toxic bloodline.”

Her face flushed apoplectic red. Nobody had spoken to her with that level of disdain in sixty years. She whipped around to her son, screeching loud enough to rattle the windows.