My brother sent me to the kids’ table at his wedding and whispered, “Don’t ruin the image,” but everything changed when the billionaire boss he wanted to impress sat next to me and shattered his humiliation.

“Don’t block the entrance, Cassidy. Only the guests who actually matter will be allowed in this section.”

My brother Jeffrey told me that on his wedding day with the same cold indifference he used when asking someone to move a piece of furniture. He adjusted his silk tie in front of a massive gilded mirror inside the ballroom of a private estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains as if belittling me was just another task on his checklist.

I was twenty-eight years old, wearing a peach-colored silk dress he had pressured me to buy and holding a heavy Italian espresso machine that had cost me two months of my rent. The ballroom looked like a scene from a luxury travel magazine where crystal chandeliers sparkled like diamonds and massive clusters of white orchids decorated every corner.