My Mom And Dad Gave My Brother A Luxury Mansion And Left Me… An Empty Parking Lot. “You Can Make It Work,” They Joked. I Built A Business Anyway.

I stepped into the tiny office behind the cafe, shutting the door on the noise of blenders and laughter. “What’s up?” I asked, already bracing for some backhanded comment about how he’d thought more about his offer. Instead, there was a long pause, and I heard him exhale like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Can we talk in person?” He said. “Somewhere near your place. Coffee or whatever.

I’ll come to you.”

Brandon offering to come to me sounded wrong enough that I agreed. We met an hour later at a cramped coffee shop a block from Vaultyard, the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and paper cups. When he walked in, I almost didn’t recognize him.

His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes had dark circles. And there was a tightness around his mouth I’d never seen before.

No sunglasses, no swagger—just a guy who looked like he’d slept in his car. He sat down across from me, wrapped both hands around his coffee like he was cold, and didn’t bother with small talk. “I need your help,” he said.

I leaned back. “Okay,” I said slowly. “With what?”

He laughed once, a short ugly sound.

“The market turned on me,” he said. “Rates shot up, deals fell through, buyers walked. I was overleveraged on some projects—nothing insane—but then everything hit at once.”

He started listing things like he was reading from a disaster checklist.

A luxury condo development that stalled and blew through its construction loan. Short-term rentals that sat empty while property taxes climbed. A string of speculative land deals that looked brilliant when money was cheap and now looked like anchors.

“I had to refinance the house,” he added, eyes flicking up to mine and away again. “Twice, tapped the equity. It’ll be fine if I can just bridge the next few months, but the bank’s breathing down my neck.

They’re talking foreclosure if I don’t catch up.”

I felt the words like distant thunder. The mansion, the glass and stone palace they’d toasted at that dinner. Suddenly not as untouchable as he’d thought.

“How much?” I asked, my voice coming out more even than I felt. He swallowed hard. “150,” he said.

“To get current and keep the wolves off while I unload some stuff. I’ll pay you back with interest. Whatever number you want.

I’ll sign whatever paperwork. Hell, I’ll give you a lean on a property I’m selling. I just need time.”

I stared at him, really stared at the brother who had raised his glass when I got a parking lot, who had told me he needed 51% of Voltyard to protect me.

Now he was sitting here asking me to protect him from the consequences of every risk he’d taken, like the rules were different for him. “Why me?” I asked quietly. “You have clients, partners, mom and dad.”

“Mom and dad are tapped,” he said, too fast.

Like he wanted to get it over with. “The company’s not doing great. Projects delayed, loans called.

You know the drill. They’re juggling their own fires.”

He hesitated, looking at the scarred tabletop. “You’re the only one in the family who has liquid cash flowing in, and you’re not exposed the same way.

If I lose the house, it’s over. No one takes you seriously in this business. If the guy who sells dream homes can’t keep his own.”

There it was again.

The hierarchy laid bare. His house wasn’t just a house. It was an id

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