Chapter 4: If I Could Build It, I Could End It

The day after I blocked Noah, I received an email.

It was from Diane. There was no greeting, no explanation. The subject line contained only four words:

Lake House Account Handover

I opened it. The first line was a direct order.

“Elise, I need you to organize the Airbnb and VRBO account information for the lake house, including all passwords and backend data, and send it to Claire by tonight. Make sure you include the guest list, the cleaner’s contact information, all maintenance records, and the check-in procedures. Don’t leave anything out.”

I stared at the screen, almost certain I had read it wrong.

The further I read, the more matter-of-fact her tone became.

“Since Claire is now the mistress of the lake house, the short-term rental business should be transferred to her as well. You need to redirect the next six months of booking income into her account. She’ll need that money for prenatal checkups and baby supplies.”

Mistress of the lake house. The rental business. The next six months of income.

In just a few lines, she had neatly divided up three years of my hard work as if it were hers to give away.

Three years ago, the lake house had sat empty during the off-season, and Robert had complained endlessly about the burden of the mortgage. I was the one who suggested listing the spare rooms on short-term rental platforms.

At first, no one wanted to help.

I took the photos myself, wrote the listing descriptions, researched local market rates, and revised the house rules and check-in instructions over and over again. When a guest locked themselves out at midnight, I was the one who drove two hours back to let them in. When the heat failed, the drains clogged, or the cleaner canceled at the last minute, I was the one who handled it.

The first year brought only a few scattered bookings. The second year, the business started turning a steady profit. By the third, both platforms had consistent five-star ratings, and our peak-season dates were filling up months in advance.

Robert and Diane used that income for property taxes, insurance, and their daily expenses, but they never once asked how much of my time and effort it took.

Now, they wanted to hand that business over to Claire, too.

It wasn’t a request. It was a notice.

Then I saw that another email address had been copied on the message.

Noah Carter.

He knew. He had probably even discussed it with them beforehand.

I hit reply. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I finally typed one line.

“Is this what you want, too?”

Less than five minutes later, Noah replied.

“Elise, I know this is awkward, but Claire’s pregnant and she’s been really emotional lately. Let’s just go along with her for now. It’s not like this is any real loss for you, is it?”

Not any real loss.

Seven years of our life together could be thrown away, because that wasn’t a real loss for me.

The house I had poured my soul into restoring could be handed over to someone else, because that wasn’t a real loss for me.

And now, the business I had built from nothing could be transferred directly to Claire, because they had already decided that whatever I lost simply didn’t matter.

As long as Claire was happy.

Before I could even close the page, another email from Diane came through.

“Claire has never handled this kind of thing before. As her sister, it’s your responsibility to help her get started. After you send over the passwords, make time for a video call to walk her through the backend operations. She’s pregnant and can’t overexert herself, so you need to be as thorough as possible.”

I read that last line—can’t overexert herself—and a bitter laugh escaped my lips.

The first time I handled a late-night guest complaint, I had a 102-degree fever.

When I was on my hands and knees repairing a leaking pipe, a jagged piece of rusted metal sliced my finger open, and my blood dripped into the standing water on the bathroom floor.

To protect our five-star rating, I once drove through a blizzard to replace a broken lock and nearly slid off the road and into a guardrail.

Back then, no one had ever asked me if I was tired.

It was clear then. The furniture, the account books, the bookings I’d built from nothing—in their eyes, none of it had ever been mine. Anything I created automatically became family property. And I, the child they had so generously raised, didn’t even have the right to own my own labor.

Whatever tiny, ridiculous sliver of hope I’d been clinging to vanished in that moment.

I leaned back in my chair and laughed out loud.

“To hell with your ‘mistress of the house.’”

I didn’t reply again. There was no point in explaining anything to them.

Instead, I logged into both rental platforms, double-checked every payment, and withdrew every last cent of income that had come from my personal labor into my own bank account.

Then I contacted customer support.

After confirming my identity, the representative asked one more time, “Are you sure you want to permanently remove this listing? Once it’s deactivated, all operating history and reviews will be permanently deleted and cannot be transferred to another user.”

“Yes.”

“All future reservations will be canceled as well.”

“Cancel them all.”

A verification code was sent to my phone. I entered the numbers and clicked confirm.

When the page refreshed, the lake house listing—with its three years of reviews, bookings, and loyal repeat guests—was gone from my account for good.

They wanted to take over my business, but they had forgotten one crucial detail: from the listing description to the payout account, everything had been registered in my name.

If I could build it, I could end it.

Next to my computer sat the house manual, the vendor directory, and the quarterly budget spreadsheets for the lake house. I picked them up, tore them into pieces, and dropped them into the trash can.

As the last torn sheet fell, I stood up and opened the window.

A rush of cold air flooded the room, carrying away the stale smell of paper and old obligations.

If I could turn a neglected lake house into a profitable rental, then I could use that same skill to build something that was truly mine.

This time, I wouldn’t be building anyone else’s life for them.

I would start from zero and build a home for myself.