I Got Disinvited From Thanksgiving So I Invited Everyone Else To My Secret $15m Aspen Estate…
Taking Back the Holiday
I didn’t browse travel sites for a last-minute economy seat. I opened my encrypted contacts list and dialed a number I hadn’t used since the cobble extraction logistics project.
“I need the Bombardier Global 7,500.”
I said the moment the broker answered.
“Tarmac two hours and send the fleet of black SUVs to the following 25 addresses.”
Constance had made a fatal error in her aesthetic purge. By uninviting everyone who didn’t fit her image of high society, she had alienated the people who actually held the family together.
My Aunt Sarah, who made the best potato salad but wore thrift store coats. Uncle Mike, the mechanic with grease under his nails.
And Grandma Josephine, the matriarch Constance had shoved into a nursing home for her own good while claiming she was too frail to travel. I sent a single mass text to the reject list:
“Mom said there wasn’t enough room for you in Aspen. She lied. A car is outside your house right now. Pack for snow. We aren’t just going to dinner; we’re taking back the holiday.”
I didn’t have to convince them. They were hurt, angry, and confused.
When the fleet of Escalades deposited them at the private hangar, confusion turned to shock. They stood on the tarmac staring at the $75 million jet gleaming under the floodlights, clutching their Target suitcases.
“Briona,”
Aunt Sarah whispered, walking up to me.
“Honey, did you—did you win the lottery?”
“Something like that,”
I said, guiding Grandma Josephine up the stairs.
“I work hard, Aunt Sarah, and it turns out the government pays better than Mom thinks.”
As we leveled out at 45,000 feet, the cabin was filled with the sound of crystal clinking and genuine laughter, a sound I hadn’t heard at a family gathering in years. My cousins were eating caviar like it was popcorn.
Uncle Mike was reclining in a leather seat that cost more than his truck. For the first time, they weren’t the poor relations; they were the VIPs.
My phone vibrated on the armrest. It was Constance.
“Venmo me $5,000 immediately. The rental requires a larger security deposit than I thought, and Britney wants to book a spa day for the senator’s wife. Don’t ignore me, Briona. You owe us for raising you.”
I looked at the message, then I looked out the window at the curvature of the earth. She was down there, scrambling for petty cash to impress people who didn’t care about her, demanding money from the daughter she had banned from the trip.
She thought she was squeezing me for a few more drops of utility. She had no idea she was texting a woman cruising at Mach 0.9 in a flying palace.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t send the money.
I swiped the notification away and picked up my glass of vintage Dom Perignon.
“To family,”
I said, raising my glass to the room.
“To family!”
They roared back. Below us, the snowy peaks of Colorado were getting closer.
Constance was busy staging her perfect little life in a rental house she couldn’t afford. She didn’t know that the landlord was coming home, and I wasn’t knocking on the door; I was bringing the mountain down on top of her.
The Mountain Fortress
The SUVs climbed the private access road, tires crunching on heated pavement that melted the snow instantly. We rounded the final bend and the trees cleared to reveal my home: a cantilevered structure of steel and floor-to-ceiling glass hanging over the edge of the mountain, glowing like a lantern in the blue twilight.
“Who—who lives here?”
Uncle Mike asked, pressing his face to the window.
“I do,”
I said. Silence filled the car.
It wasn’t just a house; it was a statement. It was a $15 million middle finger to every time my mother had called me unambitious.
Inside, the staff I’d hired at triple their holiday rate had the fire roaring. I led Grandma Josephine to the head of the table, seating her in a velvet chair that looked like a throne.
“You sit here, Grandma. No kids’ table tonight.”
She looked at the crystal glasses, the centerpieces of white orchids, and then at me. Her eyes were wet.
“Briona, sweetheart, I don’t understand. Your mother said you were struggling.”
“Mom says a lot of things,”
I replied, pouring her a glass of sparkling cider.
“Tonight we look at the truth.”
Dinner was a symphony of excess: truffle risotto, Wagyu beef, wines older than my cousins. For the first time in my life, I watched my family eat without calculating the cost of every bite.
They weren’t stressed. They weren’t fighting.
They were happy. But the main course wasn’t the food; it was the view.
“Everyone, if you could look out the North window,”
I announced, tapping my glass. The automated blinds rose silently.
About 300 yards down the slope sat a modest luxury rental. It looked small and dark from this height.
Through the windows, I could see tiny figures moving around a cramped dining table: Constance, Brittany, the senator’s son.
“Is that—is that your mom?”
Aunt Sarah asked, squinting.
“It is,”
I said.
“And she can see us too.”
I pressed a button on a remote. Outside on the terrace, a mechanism whirred to life.
A 40-foot modular LED wall, the kind used for stadium concerts, blazed into existence. It wasn’t facing us; it was facing them.
It was projecting a live 4K feed of our dinner table. Down in the valley, the snowbank next to Constance’s rental was suddenly illuminated by a 40-foot image of Grandma Josephine laughing and eating caviar.
It lit up their dining room like an alien abduction. My phone rang instantly: Constance.
I put it on speaker and set it in the center of the table.
“What is happening?”
Constance shrieked.
“There is a giant picture of your grandmother on the snow! Is that you? Are you here?”
“I’m right above you, Mom,”
I said, my voice calm and amplified by the silence of the room.
“Look up.”
I saw the tiny figure in the window down below crane her neck. I raised my glass to the window.
On the giant screen outside, a 40-foot version of me raised a 40-foot glass.
“Turn it off!”
She screamed.
“The senator’s son is asking what’s going on! You’re humiliating us!”
“Am I?”
I asked.
“I thought I was just in rehab. Crazy people do crazy things, right?”
“Briona, I am warning you!”
“Enjoy your turkey, Mom,”
I cut her off, my tone flat and lethal.
“It looks dry from up here.”
I hung up. Down below, I saw the tiny figure throw her phone.
Up here, the room erupted in cheers. Aunt Sarah was laughing so hard she was crying.
Uncle Mike was high-fiving a waiter. For a moment, it felt like victory.
