Ethan looked me over.
“You came like that?”
My daughter, Lily, touched his arm. “Ethan, please.”
He ignored her.
Executives, investors, lawyers, and two of Ethan’s wealthy friends filled the table. Most of their suits probably cost more than everything I wore.
Ethan loved that.
For five years, he had convinced everyone I was a retired maintenance worker surviving on a small pension.
Technically, I had once been a maintenance worker.
He had simply never asked what came afterward.
Dinner had barely begun before Ethan started performing.
“My father-in-law believes hard work is enough,” he announced, swirling a glass of Bordeaux. “Sweet idea. But success requires knowing where you belong.”
Several people laughed politely.
I kept cutting my steak.
Then one of Ethan’s friends asked if I lived nearby.
Before I could answer, Ethan smirked.
“Frank lives in a tiny place across the river. Very humble. Lily keeps trying to help him, but pride is a disease.”
