Leo left, looking relieved and miserable at the same time.
I stayed at the rail, staring over the marina. The late light turned the water to dull silver. A couple walked hand in hand along the far dock. Somewhere in the channel, a jet ski tore past, leaving white spray behind it.
Three years.
That was how long I had kept them away.
Three years since I blocked their calls, changed my address, and asked anyone who knew where I lived to forget it. Three years since my father had declared me selfish, ungrateful, and dead to the family because I refused to drain my savings into my brother James’s latest disaster.
They hadn’t called on birthdays. They hadn’t sent holiday cards. Nothing.
In that silence, I rebuilt my life.
Slowly. Carefully. Without anyone to catch me if I fell.
The Sovereign—my yacht, my business—was the result of four years of brutal work and two years before that spent learning every corner of the industry from the inside. She was mine in the deepest way anything can be yours when you have built it from nothing.
And now my father was standing in my robe, drinking my liquor, telling me to sleep with the staff.
I went back inside.
The main salon was cool and immaculate, smelling faintly of leather, citrus cleaner, and expensive cologne. I had chosen every detail myself: the furniture, the artwork, the finishes. The Sovereign was not just a luxury vessel. She was my livelihood and my reputation.
Four oversized suitcases sat in the center of the room.
My older brother James was sprawled across the sofa like he had always belonged there, bare feet on my coffee table, scrolling lazily through his phone.
He glanced up and smirked.
“Not bad, V. A little cold, but I can fix that.”
“Get out,” I said.
He blinked.
