Chapter 5: Homecoming War

Four

At the mansion gate, all the Thompson family members were waiting for me.

Dad wore a stern expression; mom and Aubrey Sinclair sat in the SUV.

The driveway was lined with fresh mulch, and the house loomed above us, stately and intimidating—a McLean estate with a guardhouse and cameras tucked under the eaves. The air was thick with tension. My dad’s jaw was set, mom fiddled with her pearl necklace, and Aubrey leaned against the window, lips pressed in a thin line.

When I approached, not only did they not come forward to greet me, but their faces even showed reproach.

The housekeeper Rachel, who was sent by the First Lady, announced loudly, "Ms. Thompson is home. Everyone, greet her properly—now."

Dad looked at me in disbelief, but seeing the entourage behind me—my aides, the press secretary, a pair of security officers—he had no choice but to bow his head in acknowledgment.

Hearing dad’s voice, mom and Aubrey hurried out of the SUV and greeted me.

Under their barely suppressed anger, I let out a soft laugh and boarded the Thompson family’s most luxurious car.

The leather seats felt strange beneath me—once familiar, now a marker of separation. I could smell the faint trace of Aubrey’s perfume lingering in the car, but I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting myself enjoy this rare moment of control.

Aubrey helped mom, wanting to get in the car.

Rachel blocked them: "Ms. Thompson is in the car. Mrs. Thompson and Miss Sinclair will take another."

All the Thompson family’s faces changed.

I just enjoyed seeing them want to get rid of me but having no choice but to submit—I exhaled slowly and raised the window.

This time around, it had been five years since I’d set foot in the Thompson residence again.

This was once my home.

But now, the room I’d carefully decorated belonged to Aubrey Sinclair.

My home had become hers.

The wallpaper, the childhood trophies, the shelf full of books I loved—all replaced with Aubrey’s things. Even the scent in the hallway was different, replaced by her floral candles. A Little League trophy that used to sit crooked on my dresser was gone. My throat tightened with loss, but I forced myself not to show it.

In my previous life, mom said she had arranged another room for me herself.

For five years, I missed my family day and night. When mom said that, I didn’t insist on living in my original room.

This time, I had all of Aubrey’s things thrown out—under the First Lady’s written directive returning the room to me, which Rachel brandished for staff to see.

Seeing this, Aubrey hurried forward to stop it and complained to my parents, "If Natalie wants my room, just say so. Throwing out my things is over the top, isn’t it?"

Her voice trembled with practiced vulnerability, but there was steel underneath. My parents bristled, shooting me reproachful looks, but no one dared defy me outright.

I made a gesture.

The senior maid walked up to Aubrey and slapped her twice, left and right.

Aubrey cried, her tearful look truly beautiful.

Her tears glistened on her cheeks, mascara smudging ever so slightly. The scene was almost theatrical—if I hadn’t known her true nature, I might have felt sympathy. Instead, I watched with cold satisfaction as she struggled to keep her composure.

So, I wanted to make her cry even harder.

With just a look from me, Rachel said, "Speaking disrespectfully to Ms. Thompson, twenty slaps." She signaled security to maintain order, the front courtyard screened by hedges from any passerby.

So, the senior maid kept hitting her—staff frozen at first, then obeying with shocked, brisk precision.

Dad and mom anxiously circled.

They pointed at me but didn’t dare speak out, finally putting their hands down in silence—stopped by the presence of security and Rachel’s authority. Mom’s hand trembled; Dad’s jaw worked as if grinding stone.

I glanced at them and went inside to rest.

I walked past the family photos on the wall, my head held high, measuring the house like a battlefield and marking my next target.