Mom stared at him. “What review?”
I faced her. “The one keeping Dad’s company alive.”
For three years, my salary, my condo, my credit history, and my private contracts had kept the company standing. It had not survived because of Vivian’s charm, Dad’s reputation, or Mom’s elegant dinner parties.
It survived because of me.
Dad jabbed a finger in my direction. “You ungrateful little—”
“Careful,” I said softly. “There are guests.”
His mouth snapped shut.
I set a folder on the table. Inside were copies of loan documents, transfer statements, emails in which Dad begged me to “save the family name,” and messages from Mom promising I would finally receive respect once the company recovered. There were also invoices showing that Vivian had used business funds for clothes, vacations, and engagement photographs.
Her fiancé slowly brought his glass down.
Vivian’s cheeks reddened. “Those were approved.”
“By Dad,” I said. “Using a company account under bank supervision.”
