A hundred pairs of eyes—belonging to venture capitalists, hedge fund managers, and Vermont’s wealthiest elite—were frozen on Table Nineteen. It was a table covered in paper placemats, half-eaten chicken nuggets, and melted crayons. And sitting at the center of it, pulling out a cheap plastic chair, was Emmett Stewart: a man whose personal net worth could buy the entire country estate twice over.

The rest of the wedding reception was a total disaster for Nicholas, but a masterclass in irony for everyone else.

The main head table—decorated with thousands of dollars worth of imported white orchids—sat almost completely empty. The bride, Victoria, a icy socialite whose family had funded half the lavish wedding, sat beside Nicholas with a look of thunderous fury on her face. Her eyes were fixed on the back of the room, where the true power of the evening was concentrated around plastic cups and dinosaur placemats.

Nicholas tried three times to pull Emmett away.

"Mr. Stewart," Nicholas had pleaded, offering a nervous, sweat-slicked smile. "We have a private cigar lounge set up upstairs. Cognac, top-shelf Scotch... I’d love to pitch you my new logistics platform."

Emmett hadn't even looked up from the napkin where he was reviewing a drafted press release I was editing for him on my phone. "I’m busy, Nicholas. Your sister is currently saving my European merger. Go drink your Scotch."

By the time the cake was cut, word had spread through the room like wildfire. The "poor, quiet sister" who ran a "little blog" was actually the shadow strategist behind three Fortune 500 turnarounds. The very executives Nicholas had been trying to impress all night were stepping over each other just to get ten seconds of my time.

When the reception finally ended, my parents intercepted me near the valet station. My mother, who had spent the last five years telling her bridge club that I was "still trying to find myself," grabbed my arm with a force that was almost desperate.

"Jenna, darling!" she gushed, her face stretched into a terrified, manic smile. "Why didn't you tell us? Emmett Stewart! You know him personally! You must bring him to Sunday dinner next week. Your father and I were just saying how proud we are of your... writing!"

"You told me last week my work wasn't a real job, Mom," I said flatly, pulling my arm out of her grip. "You said I should consider getting a secretarial certificate like Victoria's sister."

"Oh, I was joking, sweetheart!" she laughed nervously, looking around to see if any of the departing CEOs were watching. "You know how your mother teases! And poor Nicholas... he’s just so stressed tonight. You know how important optics are to him. You really should have told him who you were working with."

"He didn't ask," I replied. "He just told me not to ruin his photos."

Before she could answer, Nicholas marched up, his tuxedo tie undone, his eyes bloodshot with rage. Victoria was trailing behind him, her face twisted in disgust.

"You ruined my wedding," Nicholas spat, his voice dropping into a harsh, vicious whisper. "You planned this, didn't you? You sat there acting like a victim, waiting for Stewart to make a grand entrance just to humiliate me in front of my father-in-law!"

"Nicholas, control yourself," I warned.

"No! Screw you, Jenna!" he snapped, stepping into my personal space. "You think you're smart? You think because a few old men want your writing services that you're suddenly better than me? I built my company from the ground up! I have real assets! You're just a glorified freelancer living in a rented apartment!"

"A freelancer who makes more in a single quarter than your entire startup generated all of last year," I said quietly.

The truth hit him like a physical blow. He blinked, stunned into silence.

"I paid for my own dress, Nicholas," I continued, stepping closer so only he could hear. "I paid for the Italian espresso machine sitting on your gift table—the one that cost more than your rent. I came here to support my brother. But you were so blinded by your own arrogance, so obsessed with status, that you put your own family at the kids' table because you thought I lacked value."

"Jenna—" my father started, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"Don't," I said to my father. "You let him treat me like trash my whole life. You nodded along every time he called my career a joke. You built this monster. Now you get to live with him."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the waiting black sedan that Emmett had arranged for me. As the driver opened the door, Emmett stepped out from the shadows of the portico, holding a sleek black leather folder.

"They don't deserve you, you know," Emmett said gently as I approached.

"I know," I replied, taking a deep breath of the cool Vermont night air. "It just took me twenty-eight years to finally accept it."

"Well, the timing couldn't be better," Emmett said, handing me the folder. "Because while your brother was busy managing seating charts, the board of Sterling-Global just voted to initiate a hostile takeover of his primary logistics partner. And they want you to draft the public offer."

I opened the folder. The company being targeted was Vanguard Logistics—the exact firm Nicholas’s entire business plan depended on for survival. If Vanguard fell, Nicholas’s company would be bankrupt within ninety days.

I looked up at Emmett. A dark, electric thrill ran down my spine.