My mother smiled warmly. “Happy anniversary, Emily.”
My parents are extremely wealthy—they built a global shipping empire—but I’ve always tried to live differently. I work full-time, pay my own bills, and keep my finances separate because I refuse to be known only as “the billionaire’s daughter.”
Still, the bright red Lamborghini Huracán parked outside the restaurant made that goal feel impossible.
My father handed me the paperwork.
“It’s registered in your name,” he said. “The dealership just needs one night to install protective film. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
My husband Jason barely spoke through the rest of dinner.
On the way home, he muttered under his breath.
“Must be nice getting expensive toys from your parents.”
“It’s a gift,” I said calmly. “And it’s mine.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Jason had always been uncomfortable with my family’s money. I used to think it was pride. Lately it felt more like bitterness.
The next morning he showed up at my office without warning.
He pushed past the receptionist and burst into my office, slamming his palm onto my desk.
“Give me the keys.”
I looked up, confused. “Jason? What are you doing here?”