The low, expectant murmur that rippled through the grand ballroom was broken only by the sharp scrape of expensive leather shoes against imported Italian marble. Emmett Stewart cut through the room like a blade. In a sea of men wearing rented optimism and tailored desperation, Emmett wore absolute power.

I didn't stand up. I didn't offer him a seat. I simply leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair and looked at my older brother, feeling not a shred of anger, only a profound, detached pity.

“You shouldn't have come here, Nicholas,” I said, my voice steady and completely devoid of warmth. “This is a professional workspace. You don't fit the atmosphere.”

The cruel symmetry of my words hit him like a physical blow. Nicholas flinched, his eyes watering as he gripped the lapel of his cheap jacket.

“I know,” he choked out, his voice trembling as a tear carved a clean path through the dust on his cheek. “I know what I said at the wedding. I know how I treated you. Every single day, I pay for it. Chloe divorced me, took everything, and left me with debts I’ll never crawl out of. Mom and Dad won't even answer my calls anymore because I ruined the family name. I have nothing, Jenna. Absolutely nothing.”

He took a desperate step forward, pressing his palms against my desk.

“You’re my sister. Please. Just... just a loan. A recommendation at Stewart Technologies. A quiet word to Emmett. Anything to help me get back on my feet. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll sweep the floors. I’ll sit at the kids' table forever. Just help me.”

I looked at him for a long, silent moment. I thought about all the years I spent shrinking myself to make him feel tall. All the nights I stayed up writing his praises into the shadows while he took all the credit.

“I’m not going to help you get a job here, Nicholas,” I said quietly. “And I’m not going to give you money.”

His face collapsed entirely. He dropped his head into his hands, letting out a ragged, ugly sob that echoed off the high ceiling of the loft.

“Because,” I continued, standing up slowly from my desk and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline, “handouts don't fix a broken foundation. You have to build your own table, Nicholas. Exactly like I did.”