Chapter 1 - The Price of a Seat
The floor beneath my clearance-rack heels felt like polished ice, slick and uninviting. Every step toward table forty-two carried the ghosts of twenty-one years. When I was nineteen, Alden Rowe had told me I would be crawling back within six months, starving and begging for his forgiveness. He believed that cutting off my trust fund and dumping my belongings in the driveway was a masterclass in behavioral discipline. He had measured my survival by his bank statements, completely oblivious to the fact that hunger could forge something far more durable than his inherited millions.
I found my assigned seat in the darkest, draftiest corner of the grand ballroom, wedged uncomfortably between the service doors and an enormous floral cooler. It was a table reserved for third-tier vendors, distant second cousins, and people the Rowe family felt legally obligated to invite but socially embarrassed to acknowledge. My name card was written in plain black ballpoint pen, while the other tables glittered with embossed gold calligraphy.
"I see they put you where you belong," a cold, familiar voice drawled from behind my right shoulder.
I turned around slowly, smoothing the creases of my simple navy dress. Griffin Rowe stood there with a glass of single-malt Scotch balanced casually in his manicured hand. At forty-five, my older brother had grown thick around the middle, his hairline retreating beneath silver-tinted pomade, but his eyes still held that same juvenile malice from the night in the driveway. He wore an Italian tuxedo worth more than a decent car, looking down his aristocratic nose at me as if I were a smudge of soot on his crystal chandelier.
"Hello, Griffin," I said evenly, keeping my posture relaxed and my voice level. "It’s been a long time."
"Not long enough, Maren," he sneered, taking a slow sip of his Scotch. "Calder went behind Father’s back to send you that invitation. The boy has always been ridiculously sentimental. Dad almost canceled the florist when he found out you RSVP’d. We honestly expected you to have the decency to decline. Look at you. You look like an underpaid substitute teacher at an embassy gala. Are you going to ask Dad for money, or are you just here to steal the silver?"
"I’m here because Calder asked me to come," I answered calmly, meeting his condescending stare without flinching. "He wrote me a handwritten letter. He wanted family here. Clearly, he was hoping for at least one person who loves him without an agenda."
Griffin gave a dry, humorless bark of laughter that drew sideways glances from two nearby servers. "An agenda? We built him an empire, little sister. Rowe Maritime is underwriting his entire life. Father bought them a four-million-dollar brownstone in Georgetown as a wedding gift. What did you bring in that cheap faux-leather clutch? A gift card to a discount diner?"
Before I could reply, the heavy double doors near the kitchen swung open, and the crowd near the center aisle parted like the Red Sea. Alden Rowe entered the reception hall. Even at seventy-two, he walked with the arrogant, heavy-footed stride of a feudal lord inspecting his serfs. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection, his silver hair immaculate, his posture rigid with supreme self-satisfaction. Beside him walked his circle of corporate board members and retired politicians, hanging on his every whisper.
As Alden’s gaze swept across the banquet hall, scanning the room to confirm that his wealth was properly displayed, his eyes locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his face went completely blank, the sheer shock of my presence breaking through his polished facade. Then, the surprise hardened into pure, acidic disgust.
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He didn't walk over to say hello. He didn't acknowledge my two decades of absence. Instead, he leaned down to a junior banquet manager, muttered a furious command, and pointed an index finger straight at my chest. The manager blanched, nod-bowed frantically, and immediately signaled two private security guards standing by the lobby archway.
Griffin smirked, watching the guards adjust their earpieces and start making their way toward our table. "Like I said, Maren. You never knew your place. And Father has never tolerated stray dogs at his dinner parties."
