Allison stared at Jason. “You said the investors loved you.”
“They did,” I replied before he could answer. “Until Daniel began reviewing the internal audits.”
Now Allison looked genuinely confused.
“Why would this Daniel person care about your divorce?”
I smiled faintly.
“Because Daniel Mercer is my brother.”
Her mouth fell open.
Jason slammed a hand onto the table. “Catherine!”
Several patrons looked over.
I didn’t flinch.
“You told me never to use your family name,” he hissed.
“Yes,” I replied. “I did.”
Because when I met Jason six years earlier, I was exhausted by wealthy men treating me like a business acquisition. Exhausted by people seeing the Mercer fortune before they saw me.
So I hid it.
Not entirely—I never lied—but I minimized it. I used my mother’s maiden name professionally. I built my own consulting firm from scratch. I earned every client, every contract, every brutal twelve-hour workday.
Jason knew my brother was successful.
He just never bothered asking how successful.
At first, it hadn’t mattered. Back then, Jason loved me when we lived in a cramped apartment and split grocery bills. Back then, ambition still outweighed greed.
But success changed him.
Or perhaps it simply revealed him.
Allison looked between us rapidly. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me your brother is a billionaire?”
“Multimillionaire,” I corrected. “Daniel hates when people exaggerate.”
Jason rubbed both hands over his face.
I watched him unravel in real time.
Because now he understood the horrifying truth:
He had not cheated on an ordinary woman.
He had detonated his own career.
The café doors opened.
And Daniel walked in.
Six-foot-four. Charcoal overcoat. Silver watch glinting beneath the cuff. Calm, composed, terrifying.
The entire room subtly shifted around him the way people instinctively moved around power.
His gaze found mine instantly.
Then moved to Jason.
Ice.
Pure ice.
Daniel approached our table slowly. “You look tired, Catherine.”
“I’ve had a strange week.”
His eyes softened briefly before turning toward Jason again. “Mr. Beaumont.”
Jason stood halfway, uncertain whether this was a greeting or an execution.
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