Holly winces. Becca would’ve caught this in five minutes. She always saw the things I didn’t bother to look for.
He glances at me. “Do you even know who Yarrows Inc. is? They’re a shell company. Their owner’s been sued three times for unethical small business practices.” He flips another page, slower this time. “And here’s your real problem.” He taps the clause.“Personal guarantee. Holly’s on the hook for the full lease term—plus build-out costs—if this deal collapses.”
Holly goes pale. “That’s … what does that mean?”
“It means if you walk away, you don’t just lose the business,” he says flatly. “You owe them anyway.”
“I … had no idea.”
“Have you signed this?” he asks.
“No,” Holly hurries to answer. “Not yet.”
He nods once. “Good.” Then he taps the page again. “But you’ve already committed, haven’t you? Deposit? Build-out? Marketing?”
Holly hesitates. “… Yes.”
“They’ve structured this so you feel locked in before you ever sign. Rick gets a golden parachute no matter what happens. Holly takes all the risk, Mandy brings in zero equity, and you,”—he taps the margin hard, looking at me— “you’re the free labor.”
Holly's phone begins to ring. "Excuse me, I need to take this call, potential vendor."
Dad shakes his head as he watches Holly exit the room. “And this,” he says, tapping the contract again, “is why I said no when your mother and Holly came to me about opening a salon. She needed more time. More experience. And you should’ve known that, your grandad had you working years on all aspects of Hughes Construction before you took over.”
The words land heavier than anything else he’s said. I don’t argue, I can’t. He exhales, slower this time, some of the edge leaving his voice.
“After Holly's accident, I asked you to look out for your sister. I wasn’t around the way I should’ve been." He pauses before continuing. "It was hard to see my little girl like that, so I buried myself in work. I put too much of her care responsibilities on you. But that doesn't mean sacrificing your own life to watch out for her."
I nod, swallowing hard. He’s right. He put too much on me. But that’s not the whole story.I let it happen.I told myself I was helping. Being a good brother. Holding everything together. Meanwhile, I was slowly letting my wife stand on her own. Becca never demanded more. Never complained. And I used that as an excuse not to give it to her.
He leans back, watching me. Waiting. “Well, what's your next move?"
I look down at the contract, red ink bleeding through every page.
“I’m going to fix this, all of it,” I say finally. I tap the contract. “Rick’s out. Or his terms are. Either way, this deal doesn’t move forward unless it’s clean.”
Holly, from the doorway, goes still.
“No more rushing. No more blind trust. We do this right—or we don’t do it at all.”
I didn’t lose Becca because I helped my sister. I lost her because I didn’t know when helping turned into taking from us.
14
BECCA
Mrs. Rothschild
Darling, the Amalfi coast, and some wonderful new friends we have met, have begged us to stay another two weeks. Please tell me that Bernard and the flowers can still count on you?
Ilaugh at Mrs. Rothschild’s text and reply eagerly that I am happy to oblige. The cabin is close to finished, and I have just created the website and the short-term rental site listing. I could use a couple more weeks of living in luxury. I push all that aside to focus on my highest-dollar priority: my first big house sale.
I pull up real estate listings in the area and start scouring the open houses. I need to see the comparables and understand what buyers in this price range expect. I find one a few streets over starting in an hour. Perfect.
I stand in front of the Rothschilds’ guest room closet with my measly packed items from Sam’s house hung up for a long minute before pulling out a navy pencil skirt and asilk floral blouse. I curl my hair and slip on low pumps. I may not have the resume, but I can damn well look the part.
I park three blocks away from the open house. I love my car, mostly because it’s paid off, but a seven-year-old Subaru isn’t exactly the vehicle of choice for a million-dollar listing agent.
As I walk the well-kept streets, I start taking mental notes: manicured lawns, oversized garages, winding cul-de-sacs. Charles’s house stacks up well. Maybe even better than most.
