When she found out I loved skiing, she built me a private estate in Switzerland. Even named it after us—a blend of our names, a promise carved into the mountainside.
But now.
I stared at Frederick's latest social media post.
The estate's sign had been replaced.
Those four characters that once meant everything—Rosemary & Roland—had been swapped out for Sweethearts: Rosemary & Frederick.
"Yes, she cheated again. So no, I won't be taking her back."
I set down my phone and signed my name on the divorce papers without a second thought.
On the seventh day after my mother's death—the day of her memorial—my father called and asked me to come home for breakfast.
I thought maybe he still had some shred of feeling for her.
Maybe he wanted to burn offerings together.
I walked in and found Frederick and his mother, Astrid Fleming, already seated at the table.
My expression went cold. I turned to leave.
"Stay right there!"
My father's voice cracked like a whip. Before I could take another step, he launched into me.
"I heard you tried to hit Frederick at the club the other day! What the hell is wrong with you? Is that any way to treat your brother?!"