Nathan and I had been engaged for four months. We’d met two years earlier at a charity gala in Dallas where I was coordinating vendors. That night, the sound system failed, the chef threatened to quit, and a major donor threw a tantrum in front of three hundred guests.

I solved every problem without shouting, crying, or asking permission.

Nathan noticed me. He didn’t see “Harold Whitmore’s useful daughter.” He didn’t see Claire’s overlooked sister. He saw me.

I’d kept our relationship secret because I knew my family. I knew that if they found out, my mother would suddenly start hugging me in public, my father would begin calling me “my little girl” in front of his business partners, Claire would ask me for advice through poisonous smiles, and Logan would start talking about “projects we could build together.”

To them, love wasn’t love unless it could be turned into an opportunity.

My father reacted first. He walked closer with the smile he reserved for the smell of money. “Nathan, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. Emily always likes to help.