Your little hobby doesn’t compare to real corporate work, Victoria,” Richard had said when I proposed a joint venture six months earlier. He’d laughed, shuffling my presentation—projecting thirty million in savings for his company—into his trash bin without opening it.

The first real sign of the end came at Thanksgiving dinner. As Alexander bragged about a fifty-million-dollar acquisition, Richard raised his glass. “At least Alexander gives me grandchildren and real value to the Sterling name,” he announced. “Some people contribute to the legacy. Others just exist on the periphery.” His eyes found mine across the mahogany table.