I never told my boyfriend’s snobbish parents that I owned the bank holding their massive debt. To them, I was just a “barista with no future.” At their yacht party, his mother pushed me toward the edge of the boat and sneered, “Service staff should stay below deck,” while his father laughed, “Don’t get the furniture wet, trash.” My boyfriend adjusted his sunglasses and didn’t move. Then, a siren blared across the water. A police boat pulled up alongside the yacht… and the Bank’s Chief Legal Officer stepped aboard with a megaphone, looking directly at me. “Madam President, the foreclosure papers are ready for your signature.”

“Babe, just grab the ice,” Logan said with a grin that once felt charming but now looked shallow and weak. “Mom is stressed about tonight, so do not make a scene.”

The phrase echoed in my head because it defined everything about people like them, who believed that as long as things stayed quiet, anything was acceptable. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, not to scroll or complain, but to access the secure system of the investment firm I had built from nothing.

The screen showed financial data, and the yacht belonged to a chain of companies tied to a massive loan from a financial institution. That institution had been acquired by my firm earlier that week, which meant I now controlled everything connected to it.

Vivienne stood and walked toward me with unsteady steps, stopping close enough that I could smell the alcohol on her breath. “You are staring into space, which is extremely rude behavior,” she said sharply.

“I was checking something important,” I replied evenly.

“Probably your bank balance,” she scoffed, then flicked her wrist and spilled her drink across my sandals and dress with deliberate carelessness. “Clean that up, you must be used to that kind of work.”