I was still wearing my work uniform because I didn’t own anything “appropriate” for their party. My clothes smelled faintly of floor cleaner. The kitchen was full of catering staff, polished trays, expensive appetizers.
My father saw me immediately.
His face changed from host to horror in a single second.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He grabbed my elbow and dragged me into the corner. “Look at you. You smell like a restroom. Sterling’s here. Clients are here. Investors are here. Are you trying to humiliate me?”
Sterling.
Except it wasn’t Sterling. At NorthStar it was Holloway.
Martin Holloway, the CEO. The man who reported indirectly to me and didn’t know the janitor standing in the kitchen was the chairman whose instructions he followed.
“I just wanted to congratulate you,” I said, holding up the cake. “It’s Grandma’s recipe. I thought maybe—”
“You thought wrong.”
My mother appeared beside him in a dress that cost more than my monthly rent payment to them. I knew because I had indirectly cleared the card she used to buy it. She took the cake from my hands, turned, and dropped it straight into the trash.
Container and all.