Chapter 2

Three straight days of funeral rites were enough to cry every tear I had left.

The whole world knew my mother had died. Donna was the only one who didn't.

She knew I'd gone without food and sleep in order to save three hundred thousand dollars. I'd even treated the office and business dinners like my real home.

I'd drunk myself into a stomach bleed at one of those dinners, and she'd once sat by my bed, worried sick. "Steve, you don't have to push yourself this hard. If it really comes down to it, you have me."

I'd taken that as real affection. I never imagined that she was using my blood and bone to pave the way for her adopted brother.

Maybe it was because I was too raw, too fragile right then, but a thought crossed my mind. Donna should have sensed something was wrong with me. She could have at least called to check on me.

But the trending topics showed her running from one auction house to the next, sparing no expense collecting gifts for Andrew's future wife.

[Cooney Group's CEO goes all out on a lavish wedding gift for her adopted brother, more devoted to it than she ever was to her own wedding!]

See? Even the tabloids had noticed.

I thought about the past when I'd handed her the wedding plans and how she hadn't even looked up. She'd said, "There's plenty of time. Just handle it however you think best."

By now, I was exhausted too.

When I got home in a cab, Donna pulled me into a gentle embrace, same as always. "You worked so hard today, honey.

"God, it's my fault for being too harsh before and upsetting you, but I was only thinking about our future. My parents only have this one requirement. Once you save up the fund like they asked, we can hold the wedding right away."

Could I really believe that?

Was the wedding I'd waited five years for really just one word away from Andrew deciding it for us?

I gave a bitter smile and pulled out of her arms. "There's no rush on the wedding," I said flatly.

When I didn't accept her "apology," what little patience she had left ran out because of me.

"Steve, so what if I didn't lend you thirty thousand dollars? I'm anxious to have the wedding too, but I can't just help you cheat!"

I stared at her calmly, my voice shaking. "Forget it. I don't want to keep saving. Sometimes, it really does feel exhausting."

Donna, who'd just been scolding me, went still. Her breath caught, and she suddenly looked flustered. "What do you mean, stop saving? Don't joke like that. If you're that tired, I can help you from behind the scenes from now on."

I looked up and stared into her eyes.

I wanted to know how she could say that so calmly.

A while back, I'd spent nearly a year designing a project. Just as it started coming together, I was accused of misconduct at the bidding conference.

The evidence looked "airtight." The industry crucified me as a corrupt businessman, and everyone rallied to push me out.

Donna had grabbed a wine bottle and cracked it over the other man's head on the spot, then stayed up until dawn comforting me.

I never could have guessed that she was the one behind it the whole time.

Just as she'd said herself, the stock crash and the broken funding chain had been her doing too.

My chest tightened with a dull, sinking pain.

I couldn't even clench my fists properly.

That night, I heard her voice, shaking, on the phone in the study, "Right, don't trip Steve up for now. There isn't much money in another project anyway. It won't come together fast."

Through the thick door, I gave a bitter laugh.

There was really no need to keep exhausting myself like this.

I wasn't going to keep playing along.

Leaning against the door, I heard her call Andrew on a video chat. She spoke to him in a gentle tone as she patiently walked him through how to put together a project for tomorrow's bidding conference.

When I'd first started in this industry, she'd been merciless with me, grading my work down to six decimal places.

I stopped listening. I went back to the bedroom and packed my clothes into a suitcase.

Then I booked a flight for the next night.

Nearly five hundred pages of project proposal burned, curling into ash in the fireplace.

"What do you think you're doing?"