Chapter 1: Cơn Ác Mộng Trở Lại

Part 1

💸 **My parents ditched my graduation for my sister’s new Tesla, then showed up five years later expecting me to save her “fashion empire”—but I had a question that would make their performance crumble.**

I had just finished my graduation speech, the one about chasing impossible dreams. My parents weren’t there to hear it.

They were at the airport, waving off my sister, Vivian Jensen, with a brand-new Tesla.

Five years later, my film production company was making big headlines, earning millions. That’s when the doorbell rang.

There they stood, Arthur and Celeste Jensen, my parents, smiling brightly. They asked me to save Vivian’s “fashion empire.”

They expected me to write a check, just as they always had. But this time, I had a question that would shut down their carefully staged performance.

I opened the door to see Arthur’s familiar, charming grin, Celeste’s perfectly coiffed hair, and Vivian, shimmering in an outfit clearly bought for the occasion. They looked exactly as they always did.

“Elara, darling!” Celeste exclaimed, stepping forward for a hug I awkwardly returned.

“Look at you, all grown up and successful,” Arthur added, patting my shoulder a little too hard.

Vivian just stood there, a practiced, almost wistful smile on her face. Her eyes scanned my entryway, assessing.

“It’s been too long,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “What brings you to L.A.?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, darling, it’s about Vivian.”

Celeste nodded, “Her fashion brand is on the cusp of something huge, truly monumental, but it needs a little… push.”

Vivian finally spoke, her voice laced with what sounded like genuine desperation beneath the practiced glamor.

“My ‘fame coach’ says I just need one more big investment to truly break through.”

I knew then. “Fame coach.” The words hung in the air, clanging against the reality of a real “fashion empire.”

My mind raced. “Breaking through” usually meant paying for artificial engagement, not building a sustainable business. Vivian’s social media, which I occasionally stumbled upon, was a parade of lavish trips and designer outfits, all tagged “gifted” or “sponsored”—but the follower counts hadn’t budged in months. It was a classic influencer money pit, not a business.

“Come in,” I offered, stepping aside. “Let’s talk about it properly.”

They settled onto my expensive mid-century sofa, already acting as if they owned the place. Arthur launched into a dramatic explanation of Vivian’s “vision.”

“It’s about branding, image, Elara,” he insisted. “Vivian is a brand!”

Celeste chimed in, “And the coach, she’s absolutely brilliant. Guaranteed exposure.”

Vivian nodded earnestly, “She says I just need to keep up appearances for a few more months until my next viral moment.”

I listened, my expression unreadable. This wasn’t a “fashion business.” This was a thinly veiled, lavishly funded personal brand, bleeding money to an unscrupulous “fame coach” who had promised quick celebrity.

The financial stakes, I realized, were far higher than a simple loan for a genuine startup. This was a bottomless pit.

“I see,” I finally said, cutting off Arthur’s latest anecdote about Vivian’s “market potential.”

“I’ll need to look at the books, of course. All the financials, the projections, the coach’s contracts.”

Arthur’s smile faltered slightly. Celeste exchanged a quick glance with Vivian.

“Of course,” Arthur said, recovering quickly. “We brought everything. We can set up a meeting next week to go over the specifics.”

“Perfect,” I replied, standing up. “Brenda, my assistant, will be in touch to schedule a time.”

Part 2

The meeting was set for the following Tuesday morning. Brenda handled the logistics, ensuring my parents received the formal calendar invite. I spent the intervening days doing my own research. Their social media profiles were surprisingly public, given their usual attempts at curated exclusivity.

Arthur and Celeste arrived promptly, their expressions carefully composed. Vivian was not with them this time. They settled into the same sofa, Arthur smoothing his tie.

“Elara, thank you for seeing us again,” Celeste began, her voice soft and earnest.

Arthur leaned forward. “We truly appreciate you even considering this. It’s been a difficult few years, financially.”

He sighed dramatically. “We’ve poured everything into Vivian’s dreams. Sacrificed so much.”

Celeste nodded, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a pristine tissue. “Arthur’s old talent scouting connections faded, and with Vivian’s tuition and living expenses, it’s been a struggle.”

“We even had to sell the lake house,” Arthur added, as if this was the ultimate sacrifice.

They painted a picture of noble poverty, of parents selflessly dedicating their last pennies to their beloved daughter’s future. It was a well-rehearsed act, full of carefully chosen words and mournful glances.

I listened patiently, my gaze fixed on a point just past Arthur’s ear. I had already seen the photo of them on a yacht in the Caribbean. I remembered the caption: “Celebrating Arthur’s successful real estate venture!”

“It sounds like you’ve been through a lot,” I said, my voice even. “It must have been tough. Especially with all the travel.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Travel? Oh, just small trips. Local getaways, you know.”

Celeste added quickly, “Nothing extravagant, darling. A little weekend here and there, purely for R&R.”

“Yes, I saw some of your posts,” I continued, letting a slight pause hang in the air. “The ones from St. Barts last fall, for example. Looked like a wonderful trip. And the photos with the new Mercedes SUV were quite striking.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken. Arthur’s carefully maintained smile froze. Celeste’s hand, still clutching the tissue, lowered slowly from her face. Her eyes darted towards Arthur, a flash of panic in them.

Arthur stammered, “St. Barts? Oh, that was… a distant relative’s invitation. A gift.”

He tried to regain his composure, but his voice cracked. Celeste pulled her shoulders up, her neck stiff. The story of their hardship, so carefully constructed, had just shattered.

They shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, their gazes avoiding mine. The performative earnestness had vanished, replaced by a raw, exposed defensiveness. Their entire posture screamed betrayal.

The conversation that followed was short and tense. They mumbled vague excuses, then stood abruptly.

“We… we should go,” Arthur said, barely meeting my eyes. “We’ll be in touch.”

Celeste gathered her purse, her movements jerky. They practically fled my office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

I watched them go, the heavy silence of the room settling around me. Their desperation was real, but their story was a lie.