At my brother’s anniversary, I was seated in the hallway at a folding table. “Real seats are for important people, not you,” Dad announced to 156 guests. People walked past me, taking photos and whispering. I stayed silent, humiliation burning in my chest. Four hours later, my brother called, screaming, “You bought the hotel for $2.3 million?” I whispered back, “Six months ago.” And that was only the beginning…

Gregory swallowed. “It’s… urgent.”

My father noticed the small huddle and strode over, irritation already sharpened into control. “What now?” he snapped at Gregory. Then he turned to me, sneering. “Trying to cause a scene?”

I met his gaze calmly. “You already did,” I said.

Harold’s smile stiffened. “This is my son’s celebration,” he hissed. “You will not disrupt it.”

Gregory’s voice shook slightly. “Harold,” he said, “we have a problem.”

My father scoffed. “The only problem is her attitude.”

Gregory looked at him like a man preparing to jump off a cliff. “The hotel isn’t under the old ownership,” he said. “It changed hands months ago. The new owner—” His eyes flicked to me. “—is here.”

The air around us seemed to crystallize. Veronica’s smile faltered. Guests leaned closer, pretending not to. Ethan’s face drained as he pushed through the crowd toward us, his phone still in his hand.

My father’s eyes narrowed, then widened slightly, like a man seeing a crack in his own reflection. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

Carla’s tone remained professional, but her words landed like a judge’s gavel. “Mr. Whitmore,” she said, “the Seabrook Grand is owned by Whitmore Hospitality Group, LLC. Ms. Talia Whitmore is the principal.”