My stepmother moved into the $5.6 million beach ho…

Khloe was thirty-one years old and had been “desperate to get out of that apartment” at least six times in the last four years, usually when rent was due or a relationship had imploded or a job that sounded glamorous on social media turned out not to include a salary. Vanessa treated each of these episodes as evidence of Khloe’s special sensitivity to the world. Most other people would have called them consequences.

“I don’t remember inviting anyone to move in,” I said. Vanessa sighed softly, not enough to sound rude, exactly enough to sound disappointed. “Bianca, don’t be difficult.

Family doesn’t need engraved invitations. We’re telling the driver to leave by ten. Make sure the linens are turned down in the master.

Khloe has very particular skin, so tell your housekeeper not to use fabric softener on her sheets.”

I actually laughed then, once, because the sentence was so fully itself. “I don’t have a housekeeper.”

A pause. Then, coolly, “Well.