My mother smiled warmly. “Happy anniversary, Emily.”
My parents are extremely wealthy—they built a global shipping empire—but I’ve always tried to live differently. I work full-time, pay my own bills, and keep my finances separate because I refuse to be known only as “the billionaire’s daughter.”
Still, the bright red Lamborghini Huracán parked outside the restaurant made that goal feel impossible.
My father handed me the paperwork.
“It’s registered in your name,” he said. “The dealership just needs one night to install protective film. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
My husband Jason barely spoke through the rest of dinner.
On the way home, he muttered under his breath.
“Must be nice getting expensive toys from your parents.”
“It’s a gift,” I said calmly. “And it’s mine.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Jason had always been uncomfortable with my family’s money. I used to think it was pride. Lately it felt more like bitterness.
The next morning he showed up at my office without warning.
He pushed past the receptionist and burst into my office, slamming his palm onto my desk.
“Give me the keys.”
I looked up, confused. “Jason? What are you doing here?”
“The car,” he snapped. “Your parents bought it for us. That sports car belongs to me too.”
“It’s in my name,” I replied evenly. “And it isn’t even at the house.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you’re hiding it.”
“It’s still at the dealership.”
He scoffed loudly.
“Do you realize how this makes me look? My coworkers will see you driving a supercar while I’m stuck in a regular sedan. People will talk.”
“I’m not planning my life around your coworkers’ opinions,” I answered.
His face turned red with anger.
“You’re humiliating me,” he hissed.
Then he stormed out of my office.
I tried to focus on work, but a knot of unease stayed in my stomach all afternoon.
A few hours later my phone rang.
Jason.
I expected another argument.
Instead he was laughing.
Loud. Proud.
“Guess what, Emily?” he said. “I burned your dream car.”
My heart dropped.
“What?”
“I’m at the house,” he continued. “You wanted to keep it from me? Now nobody gets it.”
I grabbed my purse and ran.
The whole drive home my mind filled with horrible images—the Lamborghini melting in flames, my father’s reaction, Jason standing smugly beside the wreckage.
When I turned onto our street, I saw the smoke first.
Thick gray clouds rising into the sky.
Then flashing emergency lights.