Snakes & Scoundrels

59: casting couch

fiduniya_walakhira
to the one who made sure I didn't disappear into the writer's void—thank you doesn't quite cut it, but here I am, trying. every time I thought I might slip away, there you were, hyping me up, checking if I was still breathing in creativity (or at least life). you've seen me through the rough drafts, the character meltdowns, every plot twist, and the cliffhangers, real or written. your hype for these fictional lives is both hilarious and heartwarming, and it's what's kept me going. this chapter belongs to you because you've seen my rough edges and stuck around for the polish. each vote, each comment, each message—it's your way of leaving ink on my pages, and trust me, it's made all the difference. ❤︎❤︎❤︎

. . .

There's something inherently ironic about waking up one morning with a billion-dollar legacy dumped in your lap.

Although it's been a week, waking up as a billionaire was not on my bingo card. Ever. But here I am, apparently rolling in cash like I'm starring in a reality show called "Who Wants to Be the Sixth Richest Woman in California?" 

Spoiler alert: It's me. And I didn't even audition.

Carol, you absolutely insane, unpredictable, wildly brilliant woman. I knew you were dramatic, but this? This is a soap opera plot twist that even I wasn't prepared for. One minute I'm still that sarcastic granddaughter trying to avoid being crushed by the weight of family expectations, and the next I'm handed the crown, throne, and the entire kingdom. Minus a moat. (Although, with the money I now have, I could build a moat. That's...a terrifying thought.)

Eighty-five percent of her life. Carol basically just dumped the equivalent of a Fortune 500 company on my lap, shrugged, and said, "Have fun, sweetie." Like, sure, Carol. Let me just figure out how to run empires between trying to pick out which overpriced almond milk to put in my coffee and, you know, not completely losing my mind. No pressure, right?

And what about Mom? Oh, she got some stuff. A cute little estate here, a lovely villa there. Just a sprinkle of luxury, as Carol would say, "Here, enjoy the appetizers, but the main course? Park's having that." And Dad scored a few vacation homes. Great. They can play house, while I'm over here trying to process that I now technically own more land than several European monarchies combined. Fabulous.

And let's not forget Rainer. Carol and her best friend seemed to have shared more than a couple of heart-to-heart conversations so that she could include him in her will. Rainer Barcross got the ownership of The Vault, the most exclusive, ridiculous nightclub in Mexico City. It's just one tiny dust of her fortune but as an individual sector, it's worth more than its name. As if his ego wasn't already insufferable, now he owns the very place where tequila shots are probably named after him. 

Oh, and don't even get me started on the media circus. The vultures have already parked themselves on my lawn, foaming at the mouth, just waiting to snap pictures of me standing in front of my "modest" house with a confused expression, like, "What? Me? A billionaire? No big deal." How am I supposed to digest this? A few days ago, I was just Park Mellon: mildly successful, excessively sarcastic, perpetually late to brunch. Now I'm Park Mellon: sixth richest woman in the state, overnight yacht owner, and officially in need of an accountant who doesn't charge by the hour.

And the best part? I can't even escape it. I didn't earn this—well, not in the traditional "worked-my-way-up" sense. No, I got it because Carol loved me. And cursed me, all at once. Thanks, Grandma. Really.

So here I am, Park Mellon: newly crowned queen of wealth, trying to digest that I could buy small islands, build a castle, and hire a staff just to keep track of my impulse purchases. And all I can think is...how to not screw up the theatrical stage of Raven Star.