Moja menadżerka powiedziała, że ​​zapłaci 100 tys. dolarów, żeby mnie już nigdy nie widzieć, po tym jak kryłam ją 23 razy… Ale nie wiedziała, co po cichu przygotowałam.

Silence.

Then: “Tonight. After ten.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

That evening, Miles walked through my hotel like he’d been born in places like this.

He wasn’t flashy.

No swagger.

Just presence.

He moved with a quiet confidence that made people unconsciously step out of his way.

We stood in the lobby, watching guests.

“Your cameras are good,” he said. “Your staff is sharp. But you’re exposed.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Everywhere,” he said, blunt. “You’re too accessible. Anyone can walk in here with a smile and a knife. Metaphorically or literally.”

I kept my expression steady. “I don’t want my hotel to feel like a fortress.”

“Then don’t build a fortress,” he said. “Build awareness.”

He glanced at me. “You want to keep your doors open, you train your people to notice. You create layers. You stop assuming kindness is harmless.”

His gaze sharpened. “And you stop walking alone.”

I held his stare.

“I’ve been walking alone my whole life,” I said.

Miles’ expression didn’t soften, but something in his eyes shifted.

“That’s why you don’t realize how unnecessary it is now,” he said.

Two weeks later, I had security upgrades and a small protective detail that blended into the hotel staff so well most guests never noticed.

And I didn’t walk alone anymore.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I was responsible.

The first time my mother came to the Monarch after our phone call, she looked like she’d dressed for a funeral.

Black coat.

Minimal makeup.

Hair pulled tight.

She stood in the lobby for a moment, staring at the marble floors like they might reject her.

When she spotted me, her eyes filled immediately.

“Bethany,” she said.

“Mom,” I replied.

We stood there, two women with the same cheekbones and the same stubborn jaw, separated by a lifetime of unspoken hurt.

“I didn’t know it was like this,” she whispered, looking around.

“You didn’t want to know,” I corrected softly.

She flinched.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re right.”

I didn’t invite her into my office.

We sat in a public lounge by the windows, where other guests could see us. Where she couldn’t hiss at me like she used to without someone hearing.

I watched her hands shake around her coffee cup.

“I’ve been going to therapy,” she said, the words heavy like rocks.

I lifted my eyebrow. “Have you.”

She nodded quickly. “I know that doesn’t… fix anything. But I didn’t know where else to start.”

I studied her face.

She looked older than I remembered.

Not in years.

In wear.

“And?” I asked.

She swallowed. “My therapist asked me why I hated you.”

I stared at her.

Patricia’s eyes welled. “I told her I didn’t. That I didn’t hate you.”

I didn’t respond.

“And she said,” my mother continued, voice shaking, “‘Then why did you punish her?’”

The words hung between us.

My mother’s shoulders trembled.

“I didn’t have an answer,” she whispered.

I sipped my water and let the silence do what it needed to do.

Finally, I said, “Do you remember the day I left?”

She blinked, startled. “Yes.”

“What did you say to me?” I asked.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Her eyes darted away.

“I don’t remember,” she lied.

I leaned forward slightly. “Try again.”

Her breath hitched.

“I said…” she began.

I waited.

“I said,” she whispered, “that if you walked out that door, you weren’t welcome back.”

The confession hit like a bruise.

I nodded once. “That’s why I didn’t look back.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said.

I stared at her. “Yes, you did.”

She flinched.

“I was angry,” she pleaded. “I was scared. Your father was… and Garrett was… and you were leaving and I didn’t know how to—”

“Stop,” I said gently.

She stopped.

“I’m not here to punish you,” I told her. “And I’m not here to comfort you.”

She nodded, trembling.

“I’m here to tell you what my terms look like,” I said.

Her eyes locked on mine.

“You don’t get to rewrite the past,” I continued. “You don’t get to tell yourself you were just stressed or scared and that makes it okay. You did what you did. And you can’t undo it.”

My mother nodded, tears spilling.

“But,” I said, voice steady, “if you want a future with me, you show up differently. You don’t perform. You don’t brag. You don’t use me as a story to impress your friends.”

She nodded again.

“And you never,” I added, “ever put someone else above me again just because they make you look good.”

Her throat worked.

“I understand,” she whispered.

I leaned back.

For the first time in my life, I saw my mother without the power she’d always held over me.

She wasn’t a queen.

She was a woman.

Flawed.

Scared.

Human.

And it didn’t erase anything.

But it made room for something new.

The next conversation I had was with Garrett.

He came to the Monarch one afternoon wearing a suit that suddenly looked too tight on him, like it didn’t fit the version of himself he’d been forced to become.

He found me in my office.

I didn’t make him wait.

I didn’t punish him with silence.

Because as angry as I was, I also knew something.

He was already punished.

His engagement hadn’t just ended.

His pride had.

He stood near the windows, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the skyline like he didn’t know how to exist in a world where he wasn’t the golden child.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“Which part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he whispered.

I gestured for him to sit.

He didn’t.

“I keep replaying it,” he admitted. “The toast. The screens. The badges. Her face. And then… you.”

He looked at me.

“You were standing there like you belonged,” he said.

“I did belong,” I replied.

He swallowed. “I know. That’s what I mean. I didn’t… I didn’t realize you were… you.”

The way he said it—like I’d been a myth—made something twist in my chest.

“I was always me,” I said softly. “You just didn’t look.”

His eyes reddened.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I nodded. “You said that already.”

He flinched like the words hurt.

“They feel useless,” he said.

“They are,” I replied.

Garrett’s shoulders sagged.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “Did you ever… hate me?”

The question stunned me.

I sat back and studied him.

He looked smaller than he used to.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like someone had finally taken the pedestal away and he didn’t know where to put his feet.

“I resented you,” I admitted. “For a long time.”

He swallowed.

“Because you were treated like a person,” I continued, “and I was treated like an inconvenience.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“But did I hate you?” I asked, repeating his question. “No.”

He opened his eyes.

“I loved you,” I said. “That’s what made it worse.”

A tear slid down his cheek.

He wiped it away quickly, embarrassed.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered.

“You don’t fix it,” I said. “You live differently.”

He nodded slowly.

“And you start by telling me the truth,” I added.

His face tightened.

“There’s more,” I said. “I can feel it.”

Garrett stared at the floor.

Then, quietly, he said, “I suspected.”

My stomach dropped.

“Suspected what?”

“That it was you,” he said, voice cracking. “The money. The payments. Mom bragged about me ‘handling things,’ and I… I didn’t correct her.”

I felt something cold spread through my chest.

“You let her believe it,” I said.

He nodded, shame flooding his face.

“At first,” he whispered, “I thought it was Dad’s savings. Or… something. But then I saw a transfer receipt on the counter one day. Birch Hospitality. I looked it up. I saw the company. I saw your name attached to filings. I… I didn’t know how big it was, but I knew it was you.”

My hands clenched on the armrests.

“And you didn’t call me,” I said.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “If I acknowledged it, it would mean… it would mean I’d been wrong about you for years. And it would mean Mom was wrong. And I didn’t… I didn’t want to deal with it.”

I stared at him, fury and heartbreak tangling.

“You benefited,” I said.

He flinched.

“You benefited from me,” I continued. “And you let me stay invisible because it was easier for you.”

His face crumpled.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. And I hate myself for it.”

Silence stretched.

I stood and walked to the window, staring out at the city.

When I spoke again, my voice was quieter.

“You don’t hate yourself enough to change,” I said. “Not yet.”

Garrett’s breath hitched.

“So what do I do?” he asked.

I turned back.

“You start by not asking me to make you feel better,” I said. “You start by doing the hard work, whether I forgive you or not.”

He nodded, tears spilling.

“I will,” he whispered.

I watched him for a long moment.

Then I said, “Sit down.”

He sat.

“Tell me everything you know,” I said.

And he did.

He told me about Sandra’s odd stories.

The way she avoided details.

The way Franklin kept asking questions about my parents’ finances.

The way Delilah pushed my mother toward certain conversations.

He told me about the little moments he’d dismissed because admitting they were real would mean admitting he’d been fooled.

When he finished, his voice was hoarse.

“I should’ve listened to you,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.

He nodded, accepting it.

Then, softly, he asked, “Do you want me to quit my job?”

I blinked. “What?”

“My job,” he repeated. “The insurance company. I can’t… I can’t walk in there and pretend I’m normal after…”

I stared at him.

And suddenly, I understood why that question had been sitting in the back of my mind since the engagement party.

Because the irony wasn’t done with us.

Not even close.

“Don’t quit,” I said.

Garrett looked up, surprised.

“Not yet,” I added.

His brow furrowed.

“Why?” he asked.

I walked back to my desk and opened a drawer.

Inside was a folder.

A folder I’d had for years.

I pulled it out and set it on the table between us.

Garrett stared at it like it might bite him.

“What is that?” he asked.

I slid it closer.

“Open it,” I said.

He hesitated.

Then he opened the folder.

His eyes scanned the first page.

Then the second.

Then the third.

His face drained of color.

“Bethany…” he whispered.

I leaned back. “Remember the irony you could spread on toast?”

His hands shook.

“These are… acquisition documents,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.

He looked up at me, stunned. “This is Redwood Assurance.”

His company.

The insurance company where he worked.

“Yes,” I said again.