Back then, I'd fought with my father over her—cut myself off from my family, ended up penniless, delivering takeout just to survive. I'd worked myself to the bone to pay off the $100,000 in online loans she'd racked up.
And the moment I did? She climbed into Francis Pruitt's bed.
I'd gone home after that. Took over the family business. Swore I'd never see Alberta Fox again.
Yet here I was at a class reunion, face to face with the gold-digging traitor who'd gutted me—while she publicly humiliated me, dragging up the debt I'd paid for her, grinding my dignity into the floor in front of everyone.
This I would not swallow.
"Just because you've never seen it," I said coolly, "doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It just means you weren't important enough."
I let a beat pass.
"I'd save my breath if I were you. When the food arrives, you're going to wish you had."
"Mike Finch, you—!"
Before she could finish, the doors swung open again.
Dish after dish flowed into the room—dozens of them, each one exquisite, each one drawing gasps as they were arranged across the table.
Chester followed, cradling two bottles of limited-edition Hennessy. He addressed the room with a slight bow.