Kyle called himself a luxury real estate specialist. He had not closed a major sale in nearly two years, but he spoke about property with the confidence of someone who believed vocabulary could replace permission.
I walked back into the dining room.
He smiled. “There she is.”
Jasmine glanced at Mom. A tiny look passed between them.
“What did I miss?” I asked.
“Nothing important,” Jasmine said.
I sat down.
A few minutes later, she sighed dramatically. “Our apartment is getting impossible with Leo.”
Their two-bedroom apartment was almost thirteen hundred square feet. Not a mansion. Not a hardship either.
Mom touched her hand. “You need more room.”
Jasmine looked at me. “You have so much unused space.”
There it was.
“I use it.”
Kyle leaned forward. “For what? Screens?”
“My office. Library. Guest rooms. Living space.”
He smiled as if I had proved his argument. “Exactly. Underutilized.”
Then Jasmine said: “We could stay there temporarily.”
“How temporarily?”
“A year.”
“Maybe two,” Kyle added.
“And rent?”
Mom frowned. “Nia.”