I came home exhausted from arranging cemetery details, eyes swollen from crying—and found my suitcases dumped in the entryway. Nothing was folded. My clothes were shoved inside, shoes scattered, sleeves hanging out like afterthoughts.
He descended the stairs calm and polished. No signs of mourning. He wore an immaculate shirt, an expensive watch, and held a champagne glass. He looked energized—and frightening.
“My father is gone,” he said lightly, sipping his drink. “Which means I inherit everything. Seventy-five million dollars. Do you understand what that means?”
“Responsibility?” He sneered. “There is no ‘we.’ You were useful when Dad needed someone to clean him and feed him. A free nurse. But now? You’re dead weight. You’re ordinary. No ambition. No refinement. You don’t belong in my life as a wealthy bachelor.”
