On Christmas Eve, My Parents Handed Out Gifts To ‘The Grandkids Who Were Born To Rule’…

The High-Stakes Final Handshake

I checked the status of the script; it was active and waiting. Justin had the files and the presentation ready for the Global Developers Group meeting Tuesday morning.

He was going to stand on a stage in front of investors worth billions and present my work as his own. He was going to smile that golden boy smile and sell my soul to the highest bidder.

I closed the laptop. The cold calm I felt earlier hardened into something brittle and sharp.

I didn’t need to hack into their server or stop the meeting. In fact, I needed the meeting to happen so he would be on that stage where the stakes were impossibly high.

The script I wrote doesn’t just delete files; it exposes them. But there was a catch: the trigger wasn’t remote.

To prevent accidental detonation, I had hard-coded the execution command to require a local handshake. I had to be on the same Wi-Fi network as the presentation computer; I had to be in the room.

Tuesday morning broke with the kind of aggressive sunshine that feels like a mockery. I stood outside the real estate exchange, a fortress of glass and steel.

I adjusted my blazer, gripped my phone—the detonator—and walked toward the security checkpoint. I tapped my badge against the scanner, but instead of a green chirp, it let out a low angry buzz.

“Red, ma’am.” A security guard stepped in front of the turnstyle.

“Badge is invalid; you need to step back.”

“There’s a mistake,” I said, my voice steady despite the sudden drop in my stomach.

“I’m the lead architect on the morning pitch. My name is Jazelle.”

He didn’t even look at his screen.

“System says your credentials were scrubbed yesterday. Terminated with cause. You’re on the do-not-admit list.”

Terminated. Justin had preemptively fired me from the company I helped build just to keep me out of this room.

The Favor From a Rival

A black SUV pulled up to the curb and my parents stepped out. Richard looked like a statesman; Patricia was glowing in pearls and silk.

And then came Justin. He stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks, looking every inch the visionary genius he pretended to be.

They were laughing and celebrating before the ink was even dry. Then they saw me, standing behind the security line.

My mother actually sighed, looking as if I were a stain on her perfect morning. My father shook his head and turned his back to usher my mother inside.

But Justin stopped and looked at me. He smiled the smile of the boy who broke my toys and knew he wouldn’t get in trouble.

He leaned in close to the glass doors, made eye contact, and mouthed two words:

“Go home.”

Then he turned and walked into the lobby. I was locked out, and the pitch was starting in 20 minutes.

I simply pulled out my phone and scrolled to a contact I hadn’t spoken to in 2 years: Marcus Sterling. He was the lead developer for the rival firm bidding against my family today.

I sent one text:

“I’m in the lobby. I can prove the Green City IP is stolen. Get me in.”

Two minutes later the elevator doors opened and Sterling walked out. He just looked at the guard and said:

“She’s my external consultant; she’s with us.”

The guards stepped aside. Just like that, the fortress walls crumbled.

The Crimson Truth on the LED Wall

I walked into the boardroom and slipped into the shadows near the AV console. Justin was on the stage in front of a 20ft LED wall displaying a rotating 3D model of my city.

“This ecosystem,” he was saying, gesturing broadly, “was born from a vision I had 3 years ago. It’s not just architecture; it’s a philosophy I’ve cultivated.”

My parents were in the front row, nodding like bobbleheads. They looked so proud of the lie and proud of the thief.

I pulled out my phone and typed in the guest Wi-Fi password. Connected.

The dead man’s switch pinged my phone; it was awake and waiting for authorization. I looked at Justin one last time while he basked in the admiration of billionaires.

I didn’t feel guilt or hesitation. I felt like a judge dropping a gavel and I tapped execute.

In one second, his arrogant grin vanished. His eyes went wide, reflecting a sudden violent wash of crimson light.

The massive LED wall behind him had turned the color of fresh blood. A shocked silence fell over the room.

Justin froze as his bright eco-city vanished. In its place, a flashing red wireframe shouted:

“THE TRUTH: STOLEN PROPERTY. AUTHOR: JAZELLE. SIGNATURE FORGED. PROJECT TERMINATED.”

Justin hammered the clicker, begging the tech to fix it.

“Nothing! It’s—it’s a hack,” he stuttered.

“It’s not,” I said, stepping forward.

“It’s a copyright claim.”

The Final Payment

I left before the chaos erupted. The elevator doors closed on shouting investors and my mother’s frantic excuses.

In the garage, my father, wide-eyed and purple with rage, blocked my escape.

“You think you won?” he yelled.

“I just took out a $50,000 loan against your condo using your power of attorney! The money is gone! You’re broke, homeless!”

But he had forgotten one detail. The account he wired the funds through was a joint account and I had already moved the money.

“You didn’t save Justin,” I told him.

“You paid me.”

He stared, stunned, as I drove away. Outside, sunlight hit the windshield; I had $50,000, a job offer waiting, and finally, a life no one else controlled.