The room went quiet in a way that felt surgical.
My parents—if they still deserved that title—stood there waiting for recognition, applause, something. My father adjusted his jacket, the same confident gesture he used when he wanted control of a room. My mother scanned the office, clearly impressed.
“This place is beautiful,” she said. “We always knew she’d do well.”
I didn’t invite them to sit.
“My parents are dead,” I said calmly.
My mother laughed, assuming I was joking. “Oh, sweetheart—”
“No,” I interrupted. “They died on a mountain trail fifteen years ago.”
My assistant’s eyes widened. She excused herself immediately.
My father’s smile faltered. “You don’t need to be dramatic. We’re here to talk business.”
That explained it.
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