My fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
“And?” I asked.
A long pause.
Then: “Your mother… isn’t taking this well.”
Of course she wasn’t. My mother didn’t do well when the room stopped revolving around her.
“What did you decide?” I asked.
He exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man swallowing pride like it was poison.
“Are you really doing this?” he said instead.
I closed my eyes.
“Dad,” I said softly, “it’s already done. The only thing left is whether you handle it like adults.”
His voice sharpened. “Don’t talk to me like—”
“Like what?” I cut in, still calm. “Like you used to talk to me?”
Silence.
In the distance, a firework boomed. The windows trembled slightly.
When he spoke again, his voice was smaller.
“What do you want?” he asked. Again. Still clinging to the idea that this was a negotiation.
I leaned my forehead against the cool glass.
“I want you to stop pretending you don’t understand,” I said.
He said nothing.
So I continued.
“I want you to protect the people who don’t deserve to lose their jobs because you wanted to look impressive,” I said. “I want you to stop using your money as a mask. I want you to tell the truth—quietly, cleanly, without theatrics.”
My father’s breathing sounded uneven.
“You’re enjoying humiliating us,” he said bitterly.
I laughed once—short, almost sad.
“If I wanted to humiliate you,” I said, “I wouldn’t have given you envelopes. I would’ve given you cameras.”
He went quiet again.
Then he said, very carefully, “Rachel is… hysterical.”
That didn’t surprise me.
Rachel’s whole identity was built on being admired. Being envied. Being chosen. Being “the successful one.”
Take away the admiration and she didn’t know what was left.
“What about Michael?” I asked.
A beat.
“Michael is… trying to figure out how to fix it,” my father said, and I could hear the contempt in his voice, like even now he resented his own son’s desperation.
“And Daniel?” I asked.
That name landed differently.
My father’s voice tightened.
“Daniel says you’re right,” he muttered.
I stared out at the skyline and felt something twist in my chest.
Of course Daniel did. Daniel had always been the one who noticed the quiet cruelty. The one who slid me extra food. The one who looked ashamed when everyone laughed at me.
The one who learned early that survival sometimes looks like silence.
“Dad,” I said, “I’m going to ask you one thing.”
He scoffed. “Now you’re asking me for things?”
“Yes,” I replied, unbothered. “Because this is the part where you get to choose what kind of man you are when you’re not winning.”
Silence.
“Tell Daniel,” I said, voice steady, “he doesn’t have to carry your shame for you.”
My father’s breath caught.
“Emma—”
“Goodnight,” I said, and ended the call before he could turn it into another performance.
I stood there a moment longer, letting the quiet return.
Then I turned from the window and walked toward my office.
Lauren was waiting, tablet in hand, eyes sharp.
“Two minutes,” she said. “They’re pushing.”
I nodded.
“Put me through,” I said.
The screen lit up with a grid of faces—anchors, producers, analysts, reporters. Bright studio lights. Perfect hair. Carefully controlled excitement.
In the center, a well-known financial journalist leaned forward like she could smell the story through the screen.
“Ms. Anderson,” she said, voice trembling with the thrill of it. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice. The markets are reacting strongly. Everyone wants to know—who are you?”
I looked into the camera.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t shrink.
“I’m Emma Anderson,” I said calmly. “I lead Anderson Global. And tomorrow, we’re making a series of long-planned announcements about our investments and partnerships.”
The journalist smiled like she’d won the lottery.