"If you were Richard Whitmore's daughter, you wouldn't have been rejected. Stop making things up. It's pathetic."

I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat.

"Leo?"

Vanessa's sweet voice cut through. She approached, brow furrowed with concern as she slipped her arm through his.

"Is everything okay? Is there a misunderstanding?"

"It's nothing," Leo said, demeanor instantly smooth. He glanced at me with disdain. "Just an ex from college. Having a hard time letting go."

He wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her away without a backward glance.

But just before they disappeared into the crowd, Vanessa looked over her shoulder.

Her eyes met mine. Her lips curled—triumphant, knowing, cruel.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out numbly.

"Rena," Margaret's voice came through, sharp and impatient. "It's Sunday. Are you still throwing a tantrum? Your father is furious. Stop making a scene and come home."

"I'm not making a scene," I whispered.

I ended the call before my voice could break.

I dialed another number.

"Tyler Whitney, Tax Investigation Division. We have jurisdiction over Ascend Corporation, correct?"

"Yes, Director Whitmore."

"Richard Whitmore recently brought in a new protégé. Focus your attention there."

"Understood."

For the next few days, I buried myself in the tax audit, ignoring every call from the Whitmore residence.

Until I was cornered outside my office building after work.

Margaret stepped out of a waiting car, blocking my path.

"Rena, I finally found you. Your father's waiting at home." She sighed. "Stop being difficult. You haven't been back in nearly a month. Come home tonight. We're family—there's nothing we can't work out."

I wanted to refuse. But my superior's car was still parked behind me. I didn't want a scene. Gritting my teeth, I stepped into the vehicle.

When we arrived, the front door opened to a picture-perfect tableau: Vanessa pouring tea for Richard at the head of the table.

He looked up, brow furrowing instantly.

"So, you finally decided to show your face."

"If I'm unwelcome, I can leave. I'm quite busy."

I turned on my heel.

Margaret caught my arm.

Richard scoffed. "Busy? With what?"

"Work."

"Work?" A sneer curled his lip. "Some low-level job paying two or three thousand a month, and you think that justifies this attitude? Without my support, what decent job could you possibly find?"

"Support?"

I almost laughed.