My Entitled Sister Threw a Wild Party at My Secret Beach Mansion — She Had No Idea I Brought the Police

Part 1

At two in the morning, the piercing ring of my phone sliced through the absolute silence of my bedroom.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

The caller ID glowing in the darkness read Greg Miller.

He was the wealthy, retired neighbor living next to the Laguna Beach vacation home I had purchased entirely in cash just three weeks ago.

I answered with a dry throat, my mind racing through a hundred different disastrous scenarios.

Megan Carter, how long do you plan to keep this absolute chaos going?

His voice was trembling with a kind of rage I had never heard from him before.

Mr. Miller, I am so sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about.

I told him I was currently at my primary residence in the city, miles away from the beach.

Don’t play dumb with me, Megan.

There are about ten young people partying at your house right now, blasting heavy bass and drinking like there is no tomorrow.

It is so noisy we cannot even sleep in our own homes.

What do you think the quiet of a residential neighborhood is supposed to mean?

That quiet street in Laguna Beach was home to retirees who valued their peace above all else.

He had seemed genuinely pleased to welcome me when I told him I was buying the property.

A party at my place?

That is right, your driveway is completely jammed with flashy sports cars.

Those kids are even splashing expensive alcohol all over the carefully manicured hedges in my garden.

I am this close to calling the police.

No, I already called them.

If you do not put an end to this hell within thirty minutes, do not think you will get away with it either.

The call cut off abruptly, leaving only the dial tone echoing in my quiet room.

My pulse thundered deep inside my ears as a sickening dread settled in my stomach.

That was completely impossible.

That house was a sanctuary I had finally obtained after running three Italian restaurants day and night without a single day of rest for ten long years.

I had just moved the custom furniture in and replaced every interior detail with brand new fittings.

I was preparing for the official move-in next week, so there should not have been a single soul inside.

With trembling fingers, I launched the home security app on my phone.

The front entrance, the living room, and the spacious terrace with its sweeping ocean view were all equipped with the latest high-definition cameras.

The few agonizing seconds it took for the live footage to buffer felt like an eternity.

When the scene finally materialized on the glowing screen, I sucked in a sharp, painful breath.

Young people were jumping onto the pristine white Italian leather sofa I had carefully chosen, their muddy shoes still on.

They were laughing wildly, spraying champagne at each other using my expensive crystal glasses.

Deafening hip-hop music vibrated through the speakers I had installed just days ago.

Out on the terrace jacuzzi, unfamiliar men were diving into the water wearing nothing but their underwear.

Right at the center of the madness, holding a vintage wine bottle that I had saved for my own celebration, was my younger sister, Brenda.

The glowing screen of my smartphone turned my entire world into a living nightmare.

The living room, which should have been gleaming white and filled with the California sea breeze, had been reduced to the wreckage of a cheap nightclub.

The first thing that caught my eye was the custom-made kitchen counter imported directly from Italy.

The protective film I had been looking forward to peeling off myself was cruelly torn away and tossed onto the floor like trash.

Someone had spread out greasy pizza boxes right on top of the exposed stone.

They were spilling colorful cocktails with oil-soaked fingers, laughing without a care in the world.

Watching the dark stains spread across the porous stone made me feel like I was about to lose my mind.

I watched helplessly as one of Brenda’s hangers-on wandered into my master bedroom.

The custom bed that no one had ever laid down on was completely ruined.

Across its pure white linens, the three French bulldogs Brenda owned were running around with muddy paws.

One of the dogs viciously tore into my custom-made curtains with its teeth, ripping the expensive fabric to shreds.

A sour taste rose up from the pit of my stomach.

This white stone villa in Laguna Beach was the physical manifestation of my entire life’s work.

In my twenties, I started out washing dishes at a small Italian restaurant with hands covered in burns.

I kneaded pasta late into the night, working every single day without rest until I became the owner of three successful restaurants.

On the screen, Brenda was waving a selfie stick around and shouting at her live stream audience.

Everyone, my beautiful new villa is finally finished.

Buying a beachfront mansion at twenty-nine is basically proof of my talent, right?

She casually yanked the cork out of a three-thousand-dollar vintage wine bottle I had not even tasted yet.

She started dancing, splashing the dark red liquid all over the pristine terrace tiles.

My older sister Megan is probably buried in the smell of garlic in some restaurant kitchen right now.

This kind of refined lifestyle just does not suit her at all.

This house belongs to someone glamorous like me.

Her entourage burst into vulgar laughter, raising their plastic cups in agreement.

What they were trampling underfoot was the oak hardwood flooring I had spent hours polishing by hand.

This was not just a wild party.

This was a blatant, deliberate violation of my soul.

My anger completed its circuit and transformed into an icy, calculating calm.

I grabbed my keys, marched to my car, and pulled onto the highway heading toward Laguna Beach.

I drove aggressively down the dark highway, the lights streaming past my window in a blur.

The sharp screech of my brakes echoed through the quiet residential streets as I arrived at the house.

The crushing bass slammed into my eardrums the moment I stepped out of the car.

Several cheap-looking sports cars were carelessly parked along my private driveway.

I forced my way past a stranger at the door and stepped inside the suffocating, sweat-filled room.

Sticky trails of spilled alcohol streaked across the flooring, and broken glass was scattered everywhere.

In the center of the living room, Brenda was standing on my ruined sofa, wildly shaking a champagne bottle.

I lunged toward the audio system and yanked the main power cable out with all my strength.

Silence fell in an instant, and dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward me at once.

Brenda stepped down, a flicker of unease crossing her face before she quickly replaced it with her usual brazen smile.

Oh wow, it is Megan, she sneered, setting her glass down at my feet.

Before she could say another word, red and blue lights began spinning violently outside the house.

Three police cars slid into the driveway, and deputies stormed into the room.

Brenda immediately put on her tragic heroine expression and stepped forward to speak.

Officer, please help us, this woman suddenly barged in and ruined our family gathering.

She claimed the house was shared family property, puffing out her chest with a triumphant grin.

I pulled a single blue folder from my bag and met the officer’s eyes, ready to show my sister exactly what happens when you mistake my silence for weakness.