That night, I only meant to swing by the house to drop off my dad’s laptop.
If I’d known I was going to get a glass of water thrown straight into my face in front of nearly thirty people, I would’ve just left it at the front desk of his company.
1. My dad’s celebration, and the “obstacle” that was me
My dad’s house sits on a hill in the suburbs of Seattle, overlooking a lake. Two stories, big glass windows, a backyard with a grill and a white tent sparkling with fairy lights. That night, a banner hung across the lawn:
COLEMAN INDUSTRIES – CELEBRATING OUR BIGGEST INVESTMENT ROUND
I stood on the porch, hugging the laptop, muttering to myself:
“Yeah, ‘our’…”
Possessive pronoun, but it didn’t include me.
Inside, I could hear laughter, clinking glasses, soft jazz. I adjusted the strap of my bag and smoothed down my ponytail with my free hand.
“Relax, Ava,” I whispered. “Drop the laptop and leave. Ten minutes.”
I pushed the door open.
Immediately, a wave of expensive perfume, grilled meat, and red wine hit me. Suits and cocktail dresses everywhere, hands glittering with rings.
In the middle of the living room, my dad—Richard Coleman—stood with a glass of wine, smile wide, clapping shoulders. Behind him was a poster with his photo and the words “From Local Builder to National Player.”
I watched him for a moment.
He looked the same—dark blue suit, more gray in his hair now, that charming smile that made people believe anything he said. He was the kind of man who walked into a room and somehow the lights seemed brighter.
Standing next to him was my stepmother—Melissa—in a tight red dress and red lipstick, laughing louder than everyone else. She always looked like she’d just stepped out of a wine commercial: flawless, glossy, a little overdone.
My dad hadn’t seen me yet.
I rose on my toes, trying to slip through the crowd to get to him, when I heard Melissa’s voice, loud enough for people nearby to hear.
“Richard, I’m telling you,” she laughed, “tonight the house finally feels… clean. No more mess.”
“What are you talking about?” my dad chuckled, a little tipsy. “This house is always messy…”
“I mean the family,” she emphasized. “Our kids are doing so well now, all of them know how to live up to what it means to be a Coleman.”
I knew exactly who she was talking about.
She meant me.
I’m Ava Coleman, twenty-six, my dad’s daughter with his first wife. Or more precisely, “the halfway kid” Melissa has never once accepted as family.
I graduated from MIT, work as a software engineer at a health data startup. Jeans, hoodies, sneakers every day—everything Melissa calls “clothes for overgrown teenagers who refuse to grow up.”
To her, I’m the ink blot on the family portrait.
I pushed through a couple of people, trying to stay quiet, but Melissa had spotted me.
Her head tilted, eyes traveling from my worn sneakers, to my denim jacket, to my crossbody bag.
“Ava?” she lifted a brow. “I thought… you were busy tonight.”
“I’m just dropping off Dad’s laptop,” I said, lifting my bag. “I’ll hand it over and go.”
Melissa laughed—a sharp, bright sound that needed no microphone.
“A laptop? Leave it there, someone will bring it to him,” she waved dismissively. “This is an important event, not a… delivery window.”
A few guests turned, curiosity flickering in their eyes. I gripped the bag strap tighter, heart picking up.
“I’m his daughter,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “Not a delivery girl.”
Melissa’s smile vanished, her expression snapping from amused to cold like someone flipping a switch.
She set her wine glass down and walked toward me, heels clicking on the hardwood.
“Ava, we’ve talked about this,” she said, voice low but edged. “You can’t just show up at whatever event your father hosts dressed like… that.”
She pointed at me—from my hair down to my shoes.
I knew I wasn’t dressed for a party—black jeans, white T-shirt, denim jacket, hair in a high ponytail. But I’d just come from the office. I wasn’t a guest.
“I’m literally just dropping something off,” I repeated. “I didn’t think I needed a cocktail dress to deliver a laptop.”
Melissa snorted.
“You don’t need a cocktail dress,” she said. “You just need not to appear. We’re expecting your father’s billionaire investor tonight, remember? Mr. Reynolds? Forbes cover last week? Your father is about to shake the most important hand of his career. Don’t smudge the picture.”
I could feel more faces turning toward us now, slightly entertained.
Like they were watching a live soap opera.
“Melissa, come on…” my dad finally noticed and stepped closer, hand on her shoulder. “Ava just—”
“What did you tell me this afternoon?” Melissa cut him off, turning back to me. “I called, and you said ‘I’m busy, I can’t come.’ And now here you are, in the middle of the living room, dressed like you walked straight out of a lab.”
My teeth clenched.
“I was busy,” I said. “And… I didn’t think I belonged at a party like this.”
“Exactly,” Melissa nodded. “For once you’re right. You don’t belong at a party like this.”
The air in the room tightened. Conversations dropped off. Only the jazz track and the soft clink of glass remained.
My dad reached out, clearly about to say something, but Melissa was already too far gone.
She picked up a glass of water from the nearest table. It happened so fast I almost thought I’d imagined it.
She took one more step.
And threw the water straight into my face.
Ice-cold water slapped my skin, soaked my hair, soaked my shirt. I gasped—not from pain, but from sheer shock.
“Melissa!” I choked, strands of wet hair sticking to my cheeks.
She jabbed a finger at my face and shouted, voice ringing across the silent room:
“You are not family!”
The words cracked through the living room like a gunshot.
Nobody laughed. Nobody cleared their throat. Nobody intervened.
My dad just stood there, eyes wide, his hand still half-raised in midair like someone had hit pause.
For a few seconds I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat banging in my ears.
It wasn’t the first time Melissa had said something like that to me. In the kitchen, in the hallway, in the backyard—“bastard kid,” “stain,” “not one of us.” But this was the first time she’d said it in front of everyone.
The cold on my skin turned into something hot and burning. My face flushed. My throat closed.
Part of me wanted to scream, to curse, to throw a drink back at her. Another part just wanted to disappear—from the room, the house, from all of them.
I inhaled deeply.
“S—” someone quietly tried to nudge my dad, as if reminding him to say something. But he just stood there, staring at me, then at Melissa, like a man yanked out of a pleasant dream.
I let out a short, brittle laugh, water still dripping from my hair.
“Got it,” I said, low but clear. “I understand.”
I set the laptop on the closest table.
“I’ve returned what I came to return,” I said. “I’m leaving now. Don’t worry—I won’t show up in any of your family pictures again.”
I put a nice little twist on those last two words.
I turned toward the door. Every step sounded like I was stepping on something already dead.
My hand had just touched the doorknob when the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong.
2. The door opens—and a name
“Oh, that must be him!” a man’s voice said excitedly. “Reynolds is here!”
For some reason, nobody rushed to the door. It was like the whole room’s attention had latched onto… my dripping back.
Melissa, suddenly remembering she was the hostess, smoothed her dress and hair, then strode toward the door, shoving me aside.
“I’ve got it,” she beamed at the crowd, as if nothing had just happened. “I’ll go greet him.”
I stumbled back a couple of steps.
The door opened.
A man in his sixties stepped inside. Dark gray bespoke suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His silver hair was combed back neatly, eyes a clear steel-blue—sharp but kind.
On magazine covers, he usually appeared under headlines like:
GABRIEL REYNOLDS – THE BILLIONAIRE WHO BUILDS, NOT JUST BUYS
My dad called him a “strategic investor.” The press called him “a billionaire.”
I called him Gabe.
Melissa stretched her hand out, smile bright as a camera flash.
“Mr. Reynolds! We’re so honored—”
He walked past her.
He practically slipped right by her like she was a piece of furniture.
His eyes swept the room once, quickly, then stopped.
On me.
Hair dripping. Shirt soaked. Face streaked with water.
“Ava?” he said, voice soft but crystal clear. “Kiddo?”
The crowded room went dead silent.
I froze.
“Gabe…” I managed. “What… what are you doing here?”
Gabriel Reynolds—the man CNBC and Bloomberg kept calling vision incarnate—ignored everyone else: my dad, Melissa, the cluster of executives near the bar. He walked straight toward me.
He put both hands on my shoulders and leaned in, inspecting my face.
“You’re soaked,” he frowned. “What happened? Who—”
He turned, slowly, and looked around the room. His eyes moved over the faces, over the shock, over the stiff smiles. Finally, they landed on Melissa, whose smile had curdled, and on my dad, who looked rooted to the floor.
My dad finally managed:
“You… you know Ava?”
Gabriel turned back, took in the big poster behind my dad, the bold capital letters of COLEMAN INDUSTRIES.
He didn’t answer right away.
First, he slipped his scarf off and draped it over my shoulders, covering the wet patch on my shirt.
“Go inside and change into something dry,” he said quietly to me. “Then we’ll talk.”
I looked at him, then at the room.
“I believe,” Gabriel said then, voice a notch louder so everyone could hear, “there’s been a very large misunderstanding here.”
Melissa laughed weakly, rushing to speak.
“Mr. Reynolds, I… I didn’t realize you and Ava knew each other,” she stammered. “I was just… the girl, she—”
Gabriel lifted a hand.
That hand had signed checks with more zeros than most people would see in ten lifetimes. Tonight, a single raised palm was enough to shut everyone up.
“Before you say another word about Ava,” he said, looking straight at Melissa, “I think everyone should hear… my opinion of her.”
3. Things nobody knew
It was like someone had hit “mute” on the room.
Even the jazz had been turned off at some point.
Gabriel turned back to me, his tone gentle again.
“Ava, are you okay?” he asked.
I nodded, still dizzy.
“I’m… okay,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true.
“Do you want to stay, or go get changed first?” he asked. “I can wait.”
I looked around at the faces… and at Melissa’s panic-stricken stare. Her mouth opened and closed like she was searching for words that fit.
Something inside me stretched tight—then snapped.
“I’ll stay,” I said. It was the first time I’d used “I” instead of “I’m your daughter” or “I’m busy” in this house. “Because it seems like there’s been some confusion about who counts as ‘family.’”
A soft, involuntary “oh” came from somewhere in the corner, then died quickly.
Gabriel glanced at me, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s talk.”
He walked a few steps forward and turned fully to face the crowd, standing close enough to the COLEMAN INDUSTRIES banner that the word almost brushed his shoulder.
“I’m Gabriel Reynolds,” he said, as if anyone in the room didn’t know. “Tonight, I’ve been invited here as ‘the billionaire investor joining Coleman Industries.’ I’m happy to accept that label… under one condition.”
He pointed at me.
“That everyone here understands who I was actually interested in investing in first.”
My dad frowned.
“What do you mean?” he asked, slightly sobered.
Gabriel smiled—a small, proud smile, not a polite one.
“Three years ago,” he began, “Reynolds Capital ran a ‘Tech for Good’ program—looking for social impact tech startups in Seattle. Anyone remember that?”
A few heads bobbed. That story had made the business section of the Seattle Times—four projects selected, including a tiny healthcare data group.
“At a pitch event in an old coworking space,” Gabriel went on, “there was a girl in jeans and a gray hoodie, hair in a stubby ponytail, standing in front of a laptop screen, trying to convince us she could use machine learning to predict ICU overload and reduce the number of people who die waiting for beds.”
Fragments flickered through my head. The low ceiling, the smell of coffee, yellow lights. My shaky hands on the clicker, skeptical investor eyes, an older man at the back of the room, chin propped in his hand, listening.
“For three hours,” Gabriel said, “she answered every question I threw at her. No hype, no BS. When I asked, ‘How does this make money?’, she looked me in the eye and said, ‘I don’t know yet. But I know it needs to exist, and I’ll figure the money out later.’”
Murmurs rippled through the room. My dad looked between me and Gabriel, disbelief etched on his face.
“That girl,” Gabriel said, turning to me, “was Ava.”
I swallowed.
“That project…” I murmured, “never got funded.”
Gabriel’s smile deepened.
“If you mean we didn’t invest through Reynolds Capital,” he nodded, “you’re right. My investment committee thought it was ‘too fuzzy’ and ‘not scalable enough.’ But I…”
He paused, then looked straight at my dad.
“I took your daughter out for coffee,” he said. “At that little shop across the street, right after that pitch.”
I remembered.
He’d asked me then:
“You answered better than half the startups we’ve funded. Do you have any parents backing you?”
I’d laughed, said, “My dad’s in construction. He thinks tech is just ‘kids playing with toys.’”
Gabriel had frowned.
“Give me his number,” he’d said. “I want to ask him a question.”
Now he faced my dad again.
“I called you three years ago, Richard,” Gabriel said, his voice losing its softness. “I said, ‘Your daughter has the kind of mind that can change healthcare. Would you be willing to invest in her, one way or another?’”
My dad shifted uncomfortably.
“I… I remember that call,” he stammered. “But the company was in trouble, you remember? I said I couldn’t put money into a project that didn’t—”
“You said,” Gabriel cut in, mimicking the words, “‘If you want to invest in her, go ahead. I don’t have time for the kid’s little dream. She should find something more practical to do.’”
My jaw tightened. Hearing it again still hurt.
Gabriel’s gaze swept the room.
“I didn’t back Ava then,” he said. “It’s one of the worst decisions of my career.”
The room gasped.
“But,” he continued, “last year, when the pandemic nearly broke Seattle’s hospital system, a small startup used their model to help three major hospitals manage patient flow. An internal industry publication mentioned their unexpectedly effective forecasting tool.”
He glanced at me and winked.
“I damn near choked on my coffee when I read the line: ‘Thanks to the original algorithm built by engineer Ava Coleman.’” he said. “That’s when I realized: the kid from that coworking space didn’t wait around for money. She built the thing anyway.”
My heart thudded.
I’d never told anyone at home. The startup hadn’t exploded, we hadn’t raised a huge round, but we’d signed a couple of contracts with local hospitals and helped a little. For me, that was enough.
“This year,” Gabriel said, looking back at the crowd, “when I was approached as a ‘potential lead investor’ for Coleman Industries, I was surprised. This isn’t my usual sector. But I heard the name ‘Coleman’… and instead of just looking at your numbers, Richard, I asked: ‘Who else is in this family?’”
He flicked a glance at me.
“They sent me a CV,” he said. “One CV. Belonging to the person standing over there, dripping.”
Another collective intake of breath.
“I told you very clearly, Richard,” Gabriel went on. “The first reason I agreed to lead this round was not you. It was her. I believe that if someday Ava decided to step out of her lab and into a boardroom, Coleman Industries might actually have a future.”
My dad stared at him, stunned.
“You never… said that,” he whispered.
“I did,” Gabriel replied. “Over lunch, two months ago. Perhaps you were too busy planning tonight’s party to remember.”
A smattering of nervous laughter broke out.
“And,” Gabriel added, his voice sharpening, “when we finalized the term sheet, I insisted on adding one more clause.”
He slipped a hand into his inside pocket, pulled out an envelope, and unfolded a sheet of paper.
“A clause stating,” he read, eyes on my father, “‘within six months of closing, you will transfer 15% of your personal equity in Coleman Industries to a successor designated by me.’”
The room fell quiet again.
“A successor…?” someone echoed.
“That’s right,” Gabriel said. “And that person…”
He turned to look at me.
“…is Ava.”
4. Fifteen percent and freefall
If Melissa’s water had made me cold, Gabriel’s words poured ice over everyone else.
“You’re going to hand this company over to some… some…” Melissa couldn’t find the word. “She doesn’t even know which side of the table to sit on in a board meeting!”
“Melissa!” my dad snapped. “Enough!”
It was the first time I’d heard my dad yell at her.
But she wasn’t done.
“What did you promise me, Richard?” she cried. “You said CARSON would be your successor! You said we’d spend the rest of our lives building this new family together instead of letting your stray daughter come in and take everything!”
Carson—her son from a previous relationship, my age, currently “VP of Business Development” at Coleman Industries, a fancy title for posting office selfies on Instagram.
He’d been silent until now. His face flushed red.
“Mom, stop,” he hissed under his breath, though the room was so quiet everyone heard. “We can talk about this later.”
“Later when?” Melissa shrilled. “After she has the shares? After she kicks us out of this house?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow.
“Does this house belong to you personally or to the company?” he asked my dad, his tone suddenly cool.
“It’s mine,” my dad said quickly. “I bought it with personal funds. It’s not on the company books.”
“Then no one’s kicking anyone out of here unless you want them to,” Gabriel said calmly. “But as for the company…”
He lifted the contract, showing the signatures.
“This is your signature,” he said. “Date, clearly marked. You agreed to the successor clause without objection.”
My dad brought a shaky hand to his forehead.
“I… I thought…” he stuttered, glancing at me and looking away. “I thought you were just… you know, talking. I assumed Ava would never want anything to do with the company. She hates business. She…”
“I never said I ‘hate business,’” I cut in, voice low but firm. “I said… I don’t feel like I belong at parties like this.”
My eyes flicked to Melissa.
“And tonight,” I added, “I think that’s been made pretty clear.”
Gabriel nodded.
“I made it very clear, Richard,” he said. “This isn’t a joke. If you don’t transfer those shares, I pull out. Or worse, I take my money—and my endorsement—to one of your competitors who’s very, very eager to talk to me.”
Silence.
My dad stared at the paper, then at me.
I’d never seen him age so much in a matter of minutes.
“Please,” Melissa turned to him, shifting into pleading. “Don’t let that girl… destroy everything we have.”
“Throwing water in her face in the middle of your living room,” Gabriel said, voice suddenly sharp, “may have done more damage in five seconds than she ever could.”
Melissa blanched.
“I… I didn’t know you were here,” she whispered.
“That’s the point,” Gabriel replied. “If you’d known, you wouldn’t have done it. You didn’t object to her being here because you thought it was wrong. You objected because you assumed no one who mattered was watching.”
He turned to my dad.
“I won’t tell you how to treat your daughter,” he said. “That’s your family. But I will tell you how I treat my money: I back people who do the right thing when no one is watching, not just when a billionaire walks through the door.”
My dad closed his eyes. His hands were trembling.
For a second, I saw the man from my childhood—the one who carried me on his shoulders to baseball games, taught me to drive, clapped me on the back when my MIT acceptance letter came.
That man had faded over the years, replaced by Richard Coleman—businessman, Melissa’s husband, Carson’s stepfather.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed the change either.
“Melissa…” he opened his eyes and faced her, his voice suddenly tired. “Go inside. I need to talk to our guest.”
“You’re dismissing me?” she stared, horrified. “You’re taking her side and—”
“Go,” he repeated, softer but firmer.
Carson took her arm, tugging gently. “Mom, please. Do you really want Mr. Reynolds to walk away?”
Melissa let herself be pulled a few steps, but still turned to point at me, hissing:
“You think you’ve won, don’t you? You’re still just a bastard girl. Your blood will never be Coleman.”
“I’ve never wanted to be Melissa,” I replied quietly. “That’s enough for me.”
A few people couldn’t hold back a quick laugh. Melissa’s face flushed a dangerous red and she stormed off with Carson in tow.
The door to the back hallway closed.
The living room exhaled.
5. A decision
No one touched their glasses. No one moved. Some people looked at me with pity, some with curiosity, some with naked calculation: “Fifteen percent—this girl just got very important.”
I didn’t care.
“Ava,” my dad said, voice rough. “Did you… know about any of this? The clause… the fifteen percent?”
I shook my head.
“I knew Gabe invested in the company,” I said. “He only told me he believed I could do more than sit behind a screen. I had no idea about shares, clauses… That was between you and him.”
His expression was a mix of shame, embarrassment, and something else—pride wounded and cornered.
“All my life I thought about one thing,” he admitted, looking at Gabriel and then the guests. “Making money. Building a company, buying a house, putting a price tag on the name ‘Coleman.’ I told myself I was doing it for my family. But…”
He looked at me.
“I forgot where my family even started,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened.
“Dad…” I began, but the words ran out.
“I’m sorry,” my father said simply, dropping all the business polish. “I am—Ava, I’m sorry for tonight. For letting that happen in front of me and not stepping in immediately. I’m sorry that… three years ago, when Mr. Reynolds called, I laughed and said your project was a childish dream.”
I shifted my weight.
“I don’t need you to apologize for the project,” I said softly. “I handled it.”
“Exactly,” he smiled bitterly. “That’s what I’m most ashamed of. You handled it. You went on without me, built something yourself. And I… convinced myself that was good. That you were ‘independent.’ Really, I was just dodging my job as a father.”
The mood in the room shifted. A few older men—men who looked like they’d spent too many nights in offices instead of at home—studied him with something like understanding.
“As for the shares…” he exhaled. “I signed. I’ll stand by it. Fifteen percent of Coleman Industries… will go to Ava.”
There was a low, amazed murmur.
“Ava,” Gabriel turned to me, tone gentler, “you don’t have to accept if you don’t want to. It’s your choice. You can ask him to put it into a trust, or—”
“Why do you trust me this much?” I asked, honestly.
“Because anyone who can stand on a stage and say, ‘I don’t know how this makes money, I just know it needs to exist,’ is someone I want on my side,” he smiled. “And because tonight, the first person to get a drink thrown in her face and still stand her ground… was you.”
I laughed wetly as tears finally spilled over.
“The truth is I’m kind of in shock,” I said, wiping them away. “And cold.”
A ripple of laughter warmed the room.
I lifted my head.
“I’ll accept,” I said slowly. “But not to kick anyone out of their house or their job. I’m taking it because… if Dad really wants this company to have a future, it needs something different. I don’t know if I’ll ever leave the lab and walk into that boardroom. But at least… I’ll have a say if one day someone decides to throw water in another person’s face and say, ‘You’re not family.’”
My dad gave a crooked, genuine smile.
“I think your little sister—if I ever had another—would be proud of you,” he said. “Actually… I think I’m done with kids.”
The room laughed, and this time the sound felt real.
Gabriel clapped me on the shoulder.
“We’ll work out the details later,” he said quietly. “For now, kiddo, go change. I refuse to discuss corporate governance with someone shivering in a wet T-shirt.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly lighter.
Before I left the room, I looked around.
Some guests dropped their eyes. Others tried awkward smiles. They’d all watched Melissa soak me and call me “not family” and hadn’t moved—because she was the wife of the host, because I was “the stray kid,” because nobody wanted to step into drama.
But the moment Gabriel walked in and said my name, the entire painting changed its colors.
I realized something then: the world often only respects people when they have equity, power, a name on paper.
But there’s something else that matters just as much: whether you stay standing, even when you’re dripping.
6. After the party
Upstairs in my old bedroom, I stared at myself in the mirror—now in a dry hoodie, hair roughly towel-dried. Red eyes, but my mouth… was curved in the hint of a smile.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:
Unknown: For the record, that water stunt was insane. You okay?
I frowned.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Carson.
Don’t block me. I’m not my mother.
I snorted.
Me: I’m fine. Just cold.
Carson: You looked like you were about to burn the place down.
Me: I considered it.
Carson: Seriously, I’m… sorry. I should’ve said something.
Me: It wasn’t your job.
Carson: It kind of is. This circus is mine too.
Me: We can talk later. I have to go downstairs and be a “15% shareholder.”
I set the phone down and inhaled.
Before leaving, I glanced at an old box on the shelf—the one holding my MIT acceptance letter and a photo of me and Mom in front of the dorm. Mom died of cancer when I was twenty-two. Melissa entered my dad’s life a year later.
“Mom,” I said quietly, to nobody and maybe to her, “I think… I did something tonight you’d nod at.”
I flipped off the light and stepped into the hallway.
Downstairs, the music was on again, softer this time. My dad and Gabriel were talking in a corner. A few guests came toward me, wanting to shake my hand, introduce themselves. They no longer looked at me as “the soaking wet girl,” but as someone they might report to at a shareholders’ meeting someday.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Melissa at the end of the hallway, half-hidden by the study door. Our eyes met.
For a brief moment, I didn’t see the woman who’d thrown water at me. I saw a middle-aged woman standing next to a husband she might be losing her grip on, staring at a future that suddenly didn’t look guaranteed. The panic in her eyes, in a twisted way, made her… less terrifying.
She gritted her teeth.
“Don’t think you’re special just because some old man with money likes you,” she said quietly, just for me. “This family is mine. I’m not letting you steal it.”
I answered just as softly:
“I’m not stealing anything, Melissa. I’m taking back the one thing that never should’ve been taken from me in the first place: the right to stand in this room without someone throwing water in my face and telling me I’m not family.”
She turned away.
I walked down the stairs, each step lighter than the last.
At the bottom, Gabriel looked up and raised his glass toward me—a wordless welcome.
My dad watched, eyes glassy.
The evening resumed. Glasses clinked. People talked deals, plans, futures.
But for me, a new line had been drawn.
Between the girl who’d been soaked and told “you’re not family.”
And the new shareholder of Coleman Industries, who didn’t need anyone’s permission to belong.
I stood near the window, my reflection hovering on the glass alongside Gabriel’s, and my father’s.
For the first time, I wasn’t outside the frame.
I was in it. Not because someone took pity on me, but because my name was now on the documents.
And I knew that from tonight on, if anyone ever tried to throw another drink in my face, I wouldn’t just dry off and leave quietly.
There’d be a clause, a signature or two… and a silver-haired billionaire walking straight past everyone else to stand beside me, calling me by my name.
“Ava.”
