I slowly lowered my fork.
We were gathered inside the private dining room at Bellamy House, the upscale restaurant my parents chose whenever they wanted outsiders to see us as a happy, successful family.
Everyone sitting there knew exactly who Mom was talking about.
Me.
Rachel Carter.
Thirty-two years old.
Single.
The daughter who had supposedly “wasted” her life working in corporate restructuring rather than finding a wealthy husband, as Chloe intended to do.
Dad raised his glass.
“To second chances,” he joked. “Although some investments never recover.”
Daniel laughed even harder.
I looked across at him.
For six years, Daniel had supposedly been running Carter Home Systems, the manufacturing business our grandfather had founded.
In reality, he had mostly been pretending to run it.
Dad handed him the title.
Mom supplied the excuses.
I repaired the damage.
Whenever Daniel paid suppliers too much, I renegotiated their agreements.
Whenever he violated loan covenants, I handled the conversations with the banks.
Whenever he spent company funds on luxury vacations disguised as “client development,” I quietly reorganized the numbers within legal limits to keep the auditors from shutting everything down.
