“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

The atmosphere in the room became suffocating again. No one dared to contradict the president’s order. They all remained like statues, heads bowed, awaiting punishment or at least a long lecture. But Mr. Harrison had no intention of lecturing. He turned to me, his gaze softened instantly. He called his personal secretary, who was waiting outside, to bring a black leather briefcase. I was still in my place, paralyzed in silence. My tears had already dried, replaced by a monumental shock. I knew my mother had savings, but I never imagined she was a tycoon. She had never told me. She had always taught me to be austere, to live with gratitude.