When my brother faced lawsuits from failed property transactions and fraudulent listings, those cases disappeared from public record after settlements funded through entities that bore no connection to my name.
I lived beneath them all, literally and figuratively, in a basement space I paid rent for despite owning the entire financial structure that surrounded their lives. I watched family dinners where I was seated at the edge of tables like an afterthought, conversations flowing over me as if I were not present, while my brother narrated fabricated success stories that were treated as truth simply because they sounded more desirable than reality.
One evening my father discovered me cleaning office floors inside Asterline Technologies during a routine inspection with corporate clients. His expression shifted rapidly from confusion to humiliation, and he immediately escorted his guests away as though my existence was a defect in the building itself.
That night at home his anger erupted without restraint.
“You cannot work here where I work,” he said sharply, blocking the basement door with rigid posture, “do you understand what people will think if they see you like this?”