At a lavish dinner in Paris, my husband’s father—the millionaire—mocked my small startup.
“Can’t even afford a proper office. She’s my biggest mistake.”
I froze mid-sip, my champagne glass hovering near my lips, as Dominic Reynolds’s booming voice silenced every conversation at our table. The lavish Parisian restaurant suddenly felt suffocating, the air too warm, the lights too bright. Business partners, industry executives, and my husband, Austin, all turned to stare at me—some with pity, others with poorly concealed amusement.
Dominic, my father-in-law and the CEO of the Reynolds Footwear Empire, didn’t even look at me as he continued performing for his guests.
“My son could’ve married anyone,” he announced. “Instead, he chose someone who thinks selling homemade dresses online is a business.”
My knuckles turned white around the stem of my glass. Three years of his constant criticism had prepared me for this moment, but public humiliation still stung like a slap. Austin shifted beside me, uncomfortable, but he stayed silent. His defense of me had disappeared months ago, as if it had been slowly drained out of him.
But what Dominic didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that this dinner would change everything.
Six months earlier, I’d been sitting on the floor of my small work area, a converted storage room in our apartment that served as Lucid Designs headquarters. Fabric samples surrounded me while my laptop displayed disappointing sales figures. A clothing line I’d poured my heart into wasn’t connecting with customers, and our savings were dwindling fast.
The door opened, and Austin walked in, loosening his tie. “Hey. Dad called. Dinner at his place tonight at seven.”
I didn’t look up. “I need to finish inventory and update the website. Tell him I can’t make it.”
“Lucy, please.” Austin’s voice carried that familiar tension. “He just secured the Miller contract. It’s a big night for the company.”
“It’s always a big night for the company,” I muttered, scrolling through numbers that refused to improve. But I recognized the expression on Austin’s face—tight jaw, careful eyes. He wouldn’t stand up to his father. Not tonight or any night.
“Fine,” I said, forcing the word out. “I’ll be ready by six-thirty.”
Dominic’s mansion stood like a monument to everything Austin was expected to inherit—and everything I was expected to be grateful for simply by proximity. I smoothed my simple black dress before following Austin through the imposing front door.
“There he is,” Dominic said, pulling Austin into a firm embrace, completely ignoring me until social etiquette forced his acknowledgement. “And Lucy—still working on that little clothing project?”
“Lucid Designs increased online orders by fifteen percent this quarter,” I replied with a polite smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
Dominic smirked. “Fifteen percent of nothing is still nothing, sweetheart.”
Austin said nothing. He just led me toward the dining room as if the safest thing to do was keep moving.
Throughout dinner, Dominic praised Austin’s contributions to Reynolds Footwear while occasionally tossing condescending comments my way, like scraps.
“When are you two giving me grandchildren?” he asked, his gaze fixed on me. “Surely that little shop isn’t worth postponing a family for.”
Before I could respond, Austin jumped in. “We’re focusing on our careers right now, Dad.”
“Your career,” Dominic corrected, pointing directly at Austin. “Lucy’s hobby shop hardly counts. If she’d just take the position in our marketing department, you two could afford a proper house instead of that apartment.”
I’d heard it before, always framed like advice, always delivered like an order. Work for Dominic. Abandon my dream. Become another Reynolds puppet. I stayed quiet, a skill I’d perfected at these dinners.
The next morning, while sorting through bills, I found an unmarked envelope. Inside was a handwritten note that sent me stumbling backward, as if the words themselves had weight.
Lucy, you don’t know me, but I am your biological father. My name is Skyler Davidson. I’ve been searching for you for years. If you’re willing to meet, here’s my number.
“Aunt Beth,” I said into the phone as soon as she answered, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. Beth had raised me after my mother died when I was eight. “Did you know about this? That my father was looking for me?”
The silence on the line confirmed my suspicion before Beth finally spoke. “He contacted me last year. I told him to leave you alone.”
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