Three hundred and fifty guests filled the gilded room: business partners, investors, lawyers from fancy firms, and extended family I barely recognized.

Crystal chandeliers threw prismatic light across silk tablecloths. A twelve-piece orchestra played jazz in the corner.

A small American flag stood near the ceremonial podium, polished and discreet, part of the old pageantry my father loved.

This was Harold Ashford’s kingdom. His stage. The place where he played his role as the patriarch, the mogul, the man who had everything.

I stood in the entrance, tugging at the hem of my dress. It was black and simple. It cost seventy-nine dollars—the most I could afford on my small salary.

Everyone else glittered in expensive designer gowns and tailored tuxedos.