“Surely someone could have rented him a proper suit.”
More laughter.
Emily whispered, “Dad, I’m sorry.”
I smiled.
“Don’t be.”
Chase heard me.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Miller. We’re joking.”
“No,” I said calmly. “You’re showing me who you are.”
His smile tightened.
Chase had always assumed I was poor.
I let him.
When Emily introduced us two years earlier, I said I worked with agricultural properties and local businesses. He apparently heard “failed farmer.”
I never corrected him.
He never asked because men like Chase rarely question people they consider beneath them.
Dinner only made things worse.
Richard complained that I had contributed “almost nothing” to the wedding.
Technically, he was right.
The Whitmores believed they had paid for everything.
They didn’t know the venue had waived its $42,000 fee because one of my companies owned the building.
They didn’t know I owned the vineyard supplying the wine.
Or that the hotel housing half their guests stood on land owned by my holding company.
And Chase certainly didn’t know who controlled the commercial loan keeping his father’s luxury development company alive.
I had discovered that three weeks earlier.
By accident.
Then I found something worse.
Across the room, Richard raised his glass.
“To family,” he announced.
I nearly laughed.
