My brother sent me to the kids’ table at his wedding and whispered, “Don’t ruin the image,” but everything changed when the billionaire boss he wanted to impress sat down next to me and shattered his humiliation.

“Don’t block the entrance, Jenna. Only the guests who actually matter get into this section.”

My brother Nicholas said it to me on his wedding day with the same cold indifference he’d use to ask someone to move a piece of furniture.

He adjusted his silk tie in front of a massive gilded mirror inside the ballroom of a private estate in the rolling hills of Vermont, as if belittling me were just another item on his checklist.

I was twenty-eight years old, wearing a peach silk dress he’d pressured me into buying, and holding a heavy Italian espresso machine that had cost me two months of rent.

The ballroom looked like a scene out of a luxury travel magazine—crystal chandeliers sparkling like diamonds, massive clusters of white orchids in every corner.

Waiters moved through the crowd in white gloves while a string quartet played soft melodies for the rows of executives and wealthy partners streaming through the doors.

Nicholas lived for this kind of display.

He’d spent his whole life treating every conversation like a speech and every social interaction like a rung on a ladder.

I was trying to stay steady in my heels when he came over wearing that familiar look of disgust—the one he always had when he thought my presence was ruining his perfect aesthetic.