“You can’t do this. We’re family.”
I laughed once.
“Family? Where was family when you laughed while my cake went in the trash? Where was family when you charged me rent to live in mold? Where was family when you threw me out?”
My father looked like the world had turned against gravity.
“I was trying to make you stronger,” he whispered. “I thought if we were hard on you—”
“You thought wrong.”
Then he clutched his chest.
For a second I thought it was performance. But the collapse was real—knees buckling, body dropping awkwardly onto the lawn he cared more about than most people.
My mother screamed. Tyler froze.
“Holloway,” I said calmly, “call 911. And when he wakes up, make sure he receives the paperwork.”
“Of course, Mr. Chairman.”
I looked down at my father and felt… nothing dramatic. No triumph. No grief. Just a kind of tired completion, like finishing a task that had been overdue for years.
“What about you, sir?” Holloway asked quietly.
I glanced at the Bugatti.
“I have somewhere better to be.”
I walked back to the car.