Chapter 8 - The True Valuation
As the clock ticked toward midnight, the elite crowd began to thin. The champagne had run dry, the lobster had grown cold, and the illusion of perfection Nicholas had spent six months curating lay in absolute ruins.
Emmett closed the dossier I had just finished annotating with quick, decisive strokes of my pen. He slipped it back into his breast pocket and stood up, smoothing his Brioni jacket.
“My car is waiting outside,” Emmett said, offering me a hand. “And frankly, this venue smells too strongly of desperation and truffle oil. Care to escape?”
I looked down at the butcher paper, covered in green dragons and fire-breathing semi-trucks, then up at Emmett. I unclipped my modest pearl earrings, dropped them into my small evening clutch, and stood up, smoothing the pale blue chiffon dress Nicholas had so carefully vetted.
“Lead the way,” I said.
As we walked past the grand entrance—the very spot where Nicholas had commanded me not to stand—my brother materialized from the shadows, his face pale, his tuxedo jacket rumpled.
“Jenna... wait,” Nicholas choked out, his voice a pathetic shadow of its former self. “The... the pitch meeting with the seed fund next week. You’re still going to file the risk assessment, right? We’re family.”
I stopped, turning my head just enough to meet his panicked eyes.
May you like
“Family?” I asked softly, letting the word hang in the crisp autumn air of the Vermont night. “Nicholas, you told me I didn't have the pedigree, the currency, or the wardrobe to exist in your world. Why would I contaminate your pristine ecosystem with my freelance lifestyle?”
Before he could stammer a reply, Emmett placed a warm, steady hand on the small of my back, guiding me past the threshold and out toward the idling Rolls-Royce waiting at the curb.
