I looked across the room. There it was. Resting on Sloan’s collarbone, catching the light of my chandeliers.

I excused myself, needing air. I headed toward the corridor leading to the executive offices. That’s where I passed Franklin Whitmore. He was pacing, his phone pressed to his ear, his “refined” mask completely gone.

“We need this wedding to happen, dammit,” he hissed into the phone. “The Burns family is liquid. They have the capital to cover the situation.” A pause. “Yes, just get us through the ceremony. After that, we restructure.”

He hung up, wiped sweat from his forehead, and smoothed his jacket before returning to the party.

I stood frozen in the hallway. The Burns family is liquid?

My parents had a second mortgage. Garrett made a decent salary, but he wasn’t wealthy. There was no family fortune. Why did Franklin think there was?

And then, the realization hit me like a physical blow.

For the last four years, I had been anonymously paying off my parents’ debts. When my father needed knee surgery? I paid the hospital directly. When the mortgage was overdue? I had Birch Hospitality cut a check. I did it because I loved them, despite everything. I did it anonymously because I didn’t want their gratitude or their questions.

But my mother… in her delusion, she must have assumed the money was coming from Garrett. She must have bragged to her friends, and eventually to the Whitmores, about her successful son who quietly took care of everything.