I woke the next morning in Alexander's arms.
For several seconds, I forgot everything.
Then I saw the ruined gown hanging over a chair.
Red stains had dried almost black.
Memory returned.
“Morning.”
Alexander's voice was rough with sleep.
I turned.
“You stayed awake.”
“No.”
“You do that thing with your jaw when you haven't slept.”
“What thing?”
“That thing.”
He smiled faintly.
“Very scientific.”
“I work with data.”
“You work with people who pretend data says what they want it to say.”
“That too.”
He brushed hair away from my face.
“How are you?”
I considered lying.
“Embarrassed.”
His expression tightened.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Carry their shame for them.”
I stared at him.
He wasn't trying to give me a motivational speech.
Alexander hated motivational speeches.
He was simply stating what he believed.
“They behaved shamefully,” he said. “You didn't.”
“I know that logically.”
“Emotion doesn't care about logic.”
“No.”
He kissed my forehead.
My phone had 117 notifications.
I groaned.
“Please tell me none of this made social media.”
Alexander reached for his phone.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Don't.”
“You asked.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Smart.”
I sat up.
“It's online, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
He hesitated.
“Depends.”
“Alexander.”
“A thirty-eight-second video has approximately four million views.”
I covered my face.
“Oh God.”
“The comments are mostly on your side.”
“That does not help.”
“Someone identified your dress.”
“Of course they did.”
“The designer posted that he can restore it.”
I lowered my hands.
“Marco?”
“Yes.”
“He's going to kill me.”
“He seems more interested in killing your father.”
I laughed despite myself.
It felt good.
Then Alexander's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
“Who?”
“Daniel Price.”
His chief financial officer.
“At eight in the morning on Sunday?”
“Exactly.”
He answered.
“Daniel.”
I couldn't hear everything.
But I heard enough.
Loan.
Whitmore.
Collateral.
Discrepancy.
Alexander sat up.
“How large?”
Pause.
“Send it.”
Another pause.
“No. Don't contact anyone.”
He looked at me.
“I'll handle it.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
He didn't answer immediately.
That worried me.
“Alexander.”
“Your father's company may be in serious trouble.”
I stared at him.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Financial.”
“How serious?”
“Potentially fatal.”
I got out of bed.
“What did Daniel find?”
Alexander followed me into the kitchen.
Our home wasn't the enormous mansion people imagined Alexander Kane living in.
He owned several properties.
But our favorite was a three-bedroom apartment overlooking the bay.
Warm wood.
Books everywhere.
A kitchen we actually used.
It felt like us.
He opened his laptop.
“Whitmore Development requested two hundred eighty million in financing.”
“I heard you say that last night.”
“The loan package lists several properties as collateral.”
“So?”
“One appears to be pledged elsewhere.”
I frowned.
“Can they do that?”
“Not without disclosure.”
“And Dad didn't disclose it?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Could it be a mistake?”
“Yes.”
“You don't think it is.”
“No.”
I sat down.
Alexander turned the laptop toward me.
Numbers filled the screen.
I understood enough to see the problem.
Whitmore Development had expanded aggressively during the previous three years.
Too aggressively.
My father had acquired properties using short-term financing while betting on refinancing at better rates.
Then costs rose.
Projects stalled.
Cash flow tightened.
“He's leveraged everywhere,” I whispered.
Alexander nodded.
“How did I not know?”
“You weren't supposed to.”
I thought about my father's champagne.
The five-million-dollar wedding.
The flowers.
The orchestra.
The public performance of wealth.
“Is he broke?”
“No.”
“Is he close?”
Alexander leaned back.
“If several loans are called at once, yes.”
My phone rang.
Caroline.
I stared at the screen.
“Are you answering?”
“I don't know.”
It stopped.
Then rang again.
I answered.
“Hello?”
My sister was crying.
“Josephine.”
“What happened?”
“Nathan left.”
My chest tightened.
“Left where?”
“The hotel. He stayed somewhere else.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“He texted me.”
“What did he say?”
“That he needs time.”
I closed my eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
I opened them.
“Caroline.”
“You hate me.”
“I don't hate you.”
“You should.”
That stopped me.
Her voice cracked.
“I watched the video.”
“What video?”
“Of last night. Someone posted the whole thing.”
I said nothing.
“I look horrible.”
“You did something horrible.”
“I know.”
That was new.
No defense.
No excuse.
Just I know.
She sniffed.
“Mom is losing it. Dad hasn't come downstairs. People are calling. The wedding planner says reporters are outside.”
“I'm sorry you're dealing with that.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you're my sister.”
She began crying harder.
I looked at Alexander.
He quietly closed the laptop and walked away to give me privacy.
“Josephine?”
“I'm here.”
“I was jealous of you.”
I sat still.
“Why?”
“Because you got out.”
“Caroline—”
“No. Listen.”
I did.
“You think I was the favorite.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
The honesty surprised me.
“But being the favorite meant I could never stop being what they wanted.”
Her voice trembled.
“You left for college and stopped asking permission. You got jobs Dad didn't choose. You lived in neighborhoods Mom didn't approve of. You dated whoever you wanted.”
“And you think that was easy?”
“No.”
She paused.
“I think I hated you because you were brave enough to disappoint them.”
I couldn't speak.
“I wasn't,” she whispered.
For years, I'd seen Caroline as the beneficiary of our parents' favoritism.
I had never considered the prison inside it.
“That doesn't excuse what you did,” I said.
“I know.”
“You planned to humiliate me.”
“I know.”
“You sent Luis a picture of my dress.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Then:
“Dad was angry.”
“About what?”
“You.”
I frowned.
“What about me?”
“He found out you were consulting on the Oakland waterfront deal.”
My body went cold.
“What?”
Alexander turned from across the room.
He'd heard.
Caroline continued.
“Someone told him a consultant named Josephine Hale had recommended against one of Whitmore Development's proposals.”
I stood.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Everything clicked.
The wedding.
The humiliation.
The comments about my “dead-end office job.”
My father hadn't simply been mocking me.
He'd been punishing me.
“Did he know Hale was me?”
“Not at first. Then Evelyn showed him your professional profile.”
I closed my eyes.
The Oakland project.
I'd reviewed it six weeks earlier.
The numbers were bad.
Environmental remediation costs were understated.
Debt assumptions were unrealistic.
I had recommended that Kane International not participate without significant revisions.
“Dad thought you were sabotaging him,” Caroline said.
“I didn't even know it was his project.”
“He didn't believe that.”
“Of course he didn't.”
“He said you were trying to embarrass the family.”
The irony almost made me dizzy.
“So he decided to embarrass me first.”
Caroline didn't answer.
“Did you know why?”
“Yes.”
“And you helped him.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the windows.
San Francisco looked peaceful below us.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I wanted him to be proud of me.”
There it was.
The saddest sentence in our family.
I wanted him to be proud of me.
I'd spent half my life thinking it.
Caroline had spent hers obeying it.
“Josephine?”
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry.”
I swallowed.
“I believe you.”
She exhaled shakily.
“That doesn't mean I forgive you.”
“I know.”
“And Nathan has every right to be angry.”
“I know.”
“But if you really understand what you did, then don't spend today trying to make people feel sorry for you.”
Silence.
“What should I do?”
“Take responsibility.”
“How?”
“Start with Luis.”
“The waiter?”
“Yes.”
“You think I should apologize?”
“I think you should do more than apologize.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Okay.”
After we hung up, Alexander returned.
“You heard?”
“Enough.”
I walked toward his laptop.
“The Oakland project.”
“Yes.”
“I recommended against it.”
“You recommended against the structure presented to us.”
“I didn't know it was Dad.”
“I know.”
“He thought I sabotaged him.”
“Apparently.”
I stared at the financial documents.
“Alexander, this isn't about the wedding anymore.”
“No.”
“If Dad's company collapses, hundreds of employees could lose jobs.”
“Yes.”
“Contractors.”
“Yes.”
“Families.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“We have to help.”
His expression didn't change.
“No.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“We have to determine whether the company can be saved.”
“That's what I meant.”
“No, it isn't.”
He closed the laptop.
“You want to save your father from consequences.”
“I want to save innocent employees.”
“Then say that.”
I stared at him.
He was right.
I hated that.
“Fine. I want to protect the employees.”
“Good.”
“And maybe prevent Dad from losing everything.”
“There it is.”
“Alexander.”
He took my hands.
“You can help him. But you cannot spend your life absorbing the consequences of his decisions.”
I looked down.
“What if helping him is my decision?”
“Then I'll stand beside you.”
That was the answer I needed.
My phone buzzed.
A message from my father.
COME TO THE HOUSE. ALONE.
I showed Alexander.
He raised an eyebrow.
“No.”
I almost smiled.
“He specifically said alone.”
“I can read.”
“I should go.”
“Josephine.”
“I need to hear what he has to say.”
Alexander studied me.
Then nodded.
“I won't come inside.”
“Thank you.”
“I'll be outside.”
“Alexander.”
“Across the street.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“Half a block.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
Three hours later, I walked into my childhood home.
My father was waiting in his study.
He looked as though he'd aged ten years overnight.
Documents covered his desk.
He didn't ask how I was.
He didn't apologize.
He simply pushed a folder toward me.
“You're going to fix this.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You work for Kane.”
“I advise Kane.”
“Same difference.”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“You caused this.”
I felt something inside me finally break free.
Not anger.
Obligation.
The lifelong belief that I owed him obedience because he was my father.
I pushed the folder back.
“I didn't cause anything.”
“You rejected my project.”
“I rejected bad numbers.”
His face reddened.
“You humiliated me.”
“You paid someone to throw wine on me.”
“Because you betrayed this family!”
I stood.
“No, Dad. I stopped sacrificing myself to it.”
He stared.
Then his expression changed.
Fear replaced anger.
“Josephine.”
It was the first time he'd said my name without contempt in years.
“If Kane doesn't approve that loan, Whitmore Development won't make it sixty days.”
I stopped.
He swallowed.
“And if the company goes down, there's something else you're going to find.”
“What?”
He looked toward the closed study door.
Then back at me.
“Something I did eighteen years ago.”
My blood went cold.
“What did you do?”
His voice dropped.
“Something your mother never told you.”