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They Said 'Move To The Basement'—Not Knowing I Own The Skyscraper
‪@RevengeNexus-j1e‬

The moving boxes appeared in my hallway without warning. I came home from a property inspection in Seattle to find my mother directing traffic in my penthouse apartment like a general commanding an invasion.
"Those boxes go to the basement storage," Mom told my brother-in-law Kevin, who was carrying my office chair toward the elevator. "Riley won't need a home office down there anyway."
"Down where?" I asked, setting my briefcase on the kitchen counter.
"Oh good, you're home." Mom didn't look guilty. "We need to talk about new living arrangements. Your sister Jade is pregnant with twins, and this penthouse is perfect for her family. You'll be much cozier in the basement apartment."
I looked around my three-thousand-square-foot penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Portland. The space I'd specifically designed when I'd converted this building from commercial to residential four years ago.
"The basement apartment," I repeated slowly.
"It's actually quite nice," Jade said, emerging from my bedroom with an armful of my clothes. "Kevin and I looked at it yesterday. A bit dark, but you're always traveling for work anyway."
My "work" was managing seventeen commercial and residential properties across four states, but my family had always described it as "Riley's real estate hobby."
"When did you look at the basement apartment?"
"Yesterday. The building manager let us in. Said the current tenant is moving out next month, perfect timing."