You know that specific silence before a room erupts in laughter at an insult? I lived in that silence, smiling exactly like the loser they wanted to see. But while my father toasted my siblings, my phone vibrated against my hip. The deal closed at 9:07 at night. They did not know it yet, but the failure of the family just bought the debt that decides if they have a roof over their heads tomorrow.
My name is Payton Smith, and I stood near the expansive mahogany bar of the Cedar Hollow Lodge, watching the ice melt in my untouched glass of tonic water. The room was suffocatingly warm, filled with the scent of expensive roast beef, heavy cologne, and the distinct metallic tang of desperation masked as opulence. This was the Kincaid family reunion, an event that had less to do with familial bonds and everything to do with maintaining the fragile illusion that the Kincaid empire was still the titan of industry it had been twenty years ago. The lodge, located just on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, was my father’s pride and joy. It was a sprawling structure of timber and stone, designed to look rustic but costing more to maintain annually than most people earned in a lifetime. Tonight, it was packed with distant cousins, business associates, and local politicians, all eager to kiss the ring of Warren Kincaid. A string quartet played something classical and innocuous in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the roar of laughter and the clinking of crystal flutes.
I smoothed the fabric of my black suit jacket. It was tailored, sharp, and unassuming. I did not dress to impress them; I dressed to disappear. In this room, I was a ghost—a glitch in the perfect programming of the Kincaid dynasty. My last name was Smith now, a deliberate choice I made years ago to distance myself from the brand. But tonight, summoned by a mandatory invitation, I was dragged back into orbit. My brother Logan was holding court near the fireplace. At thirty-six, he was the heir apparent, the CFO of Kincaid Event and Lodging. He wore a watch that cost more than my first car, and he was laughing too loudly at a joke that was not funny. Beside him stood my sister, Paige. She was the Vice President of Communications, a title that essentially meant she was paid to make sure nobody looked too closely at the cracks in the foundation. She looked radiant in emerald green, her hand resting possessively on Logan’s arm, projecting the image of united, unstoppable siblings. And then there was me.
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