Chapter 2 - The Torn Invitation

Forty-eight hours later, the top floor of the Northbridge Commercial Holdings headquarters in downtown Richmond was bathed in bright, sharp morning sunlight.

I sat at the head of the mahogany conference table, wearing a crisp, dark navy suit, reviewing the quarterly expansion reports for our new hotel chain in North Carolina.

The heavy glass doors of the executive floor swung open, and the sound of frantic, raised voices echoed down the carpeted hallway.

Denise, Kendra, and my father, Richard, burst through the security checkpoint, flanked by two building guards who were holding up their hands in an attempt to restrain them.

"Let us through!" Denise screamed, her eyes wide, her expensive designer clothes completely absent, replaced by a simple, unironed trench coat. "I am the mother of your CEO! You have no right to touch me!"

I raised a single hand, signaling the security officers to step back. "It's fine, boys. Give us the room."

The guards bowed slightly and backed out, closing the heavy acoustic doors behind them, leaving my family standing in the center of my corporate empire.

Richard stood there, looking at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the polished glass tables, and the wall of national awards carrying my name in bold gold lettering.

"Vivian..." my father choked out, his voice trembling. "We... we didn't know. We truly didn't know you owned all of this."

"You didn't know because you never asked, Dad," I said, not standing up from my chair. "You only cared about the version of me that was convenient for you."

Kendra stepped forward, her eyes swollen from two days of endless crying, her engagement ring noticeably missing from her hand.

"Spencer left me, Vivian," Kendra sobbed, clutching her hands together. "His family canceled the wedding registry, the newspapers are calling us social fraudsters, and the dealership came yesterday and repossessed my car!"

"The car was leased under a Northbridge corporate account, Kendra," I replied coldly. "You don't work for Northbridge. Therefore, you don't drive my cars."

Denise rushed up to the table, slamming her hands flat against the polished mahogany. "You are my daughter! How could you do this to your own blood? The bank called this morning—the mortgage on our house is forty-eight hours past due! They said the corporate subsidy was revoked!"

"You called me trash, Denise," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, unyielding register that made my mother flinch. "You tore up my invitation in your living room and told me I was an embarrassment to your family."