Chapter 4 - The True Valuation**
"Jenna," Nicholas whispered, his voice trembling so violently the vowels fractured. "You... you never told me..."
"You never asked, Nicholas," I said, standing up from my chair and smoothing down the front of my light blue dress. I didn't look small anymore. Standing beside Emmett Stewart, surrounded by the wreckage of my family's shallow pretensions, I felt ten feet tall. "Every time we spoke, you spent forty-five minutes talking about your quarterly bonuses, your leased luxury cars, and how important it was to look the part. Whenever I tried to talk about my work, you told me my little internet hobbies were cute."
"That's not... I didn't mean..." Nicholas stammered, raising his hands defensively. "We're family! We're Vance blood!"
"Blood doesn't buy equity, Mr. Vance," Emmett chimed in coldly, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. "And speaking of equity—let's discuss that sub-licensing contract your firm submitted to my desk last Tuesday."
Nicholas’s head whipped toward the billionaire. "The... the distribution contract? What about it?"
"It was littered with grammatical errors, flawed risk assessments, and a pricing structure so amateurish it looked like it was drafted by an intern using an AI chatbot," Emmett said smoothly. "I was going to reject it tomorrow morning out of hand. But now? Now I think we’ll terminate all ongoing negotiations with your division permanently. I won't do business with a man who lacks the basic intelligence to recognize the value sitting right across from him in his own family."
The blow landed with the force of a physical punch.
Nicholas slumped against the back of a nearby empty chair, the illusion of his grand, triumphant wedding completely incinerated. The crystal chandeliers overhead suddenly felt unbearably bright, illuminating a room full of wealthy parasites who were already whispering among themselves, backing away from my brother as if his incompetence were contagious.
My mother burst into noisy, theatrical tears, burying her face in my father’s shoulder. My father looked down at his shoes, utterly defeated.
I looked at Nicholas, feeling neither anger nor pity. Just a profound, liberating emptiness. The debt I had carried for years—the invisible burden of trying to earn approval from people who measured human worth by price tags and square footage—evaporated into the autumn air.
I reached down, patted little Parker on the head, and picked up my small designer clutch from the sticky table.
"Come on, Emmett," I said quietly, turning toward the grand exit. "Let's get out of here. The kids' table is getting a little too dramatic for my taste."
May you like
Emmett offered me his arm with a faint, appreciative smile. "Lead the way, Jenna. I know a place downtown that serves actual food and doesn't charge twenty thousand dollars for dry chicken."
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