No idea I knew about the private gambling markers in Nevada.
No idea I knew about the shadow accounts.
No idea I knew he had taken out a second loan against Dominique’s clinic and routed part of it through a Delaware holding company so flimsy it looked like it had been assembled in a panic between martinis.
No idea I knew about the young woman in the Buckhead apartment he paid for on the side.
No idea the federal government already had half the documents in my possession.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
Dominique looped her arm more tightly through his and gave me a smile full of sugar and poison.
“Come on, Trent. Dad’s probably waiting. And Joselyn…”
“Yes?”
“Tonight is important. Try not to make things awkward.”
Then they brushed past me and went inside like they owned the place.
They didn’t.
Not anymore.
I had signed the final documents that morning through a holding company my family had never heard of. By the time my father arrived to host his little legacy event, Oakwood was already mine.
He had invited half of Atlanta to stage-manage my humiliation in my own building.
At the time, only three people besides me knew that: my attorney, the general manager, and the young events technician I’d paid to follow my instructions once the night reached the point I suspected it would.
The lobby was all soft gold light, polished marble, orchids, and that faint expensive-club smell of citrus oil, old wood, and chilled air. Guests were already gathering. Men in tuxedos. Women in careful hair and dresses designed to announce standing without appearing desperate. Church board members. Developers. A state senator. Two city council people. Donors. My father’s favorite audience.
I had barely stepped fully inside when a hand clamped around my upper arm.
My mother.
Vivien Montgomery could turn a smile on and off faster than most people could blink. She had spent decades mastering the art of looking gracious in public and merciless in private. Tonight she wore cream silk, pearls, and the expression of a woman who believed the room ought to rise slightly when she entered it.
“What are you wearing?” she hissed.
I looked down. “A dress.”
“Don’t start with me.”
Her eyes dropped to my neckline, my earrings, my shoes, doing the fast accounting she always did. Not because she appreciated anything. Because she wanted to measure it.
“I sent you the red one,” she said. “The one with the visible label.”