cnu-ON MY BROTHER’S 28TH BIRTHDAY, MY PARENTS DRAG…
My father held the microphone. “She is a wonderful daughter,” he said.
Ethan walked onto the stage. He was holding a leather folder and a pen—an expensive, heavy gold pen. My father took the folder. He opened it.
“This document simply transfers the management of her grandfather’s trust to the Hail Family Fund to allow us to make this and other important investments.”
He handed me the pen. The cameras were flashing—bright white lights. I was blind. I looked at the paper. It was what I’d seen before: the power of attorney—the document that would give him everything.
“Sign it, daughter,” my father whispered, so only I could hear. His arm tightened on my shoulder. It hurt. The crowd was applauding. They were waiting. They were smiling.
I looked at my father’s cold eyes. I looked at my mother, who was mouthing the words, “Smile, Charlotte. Smile.” I looked at Ethan, who was holding the folder, smirking at me. He thought he had won. They all thought they had won. I thought of my grandfather. Be free, Charlie.
I was holding the pen. My hand was shaking. I looked down at the paper, at the line where my name was supposed to go. Then I looked up. I looked past the lights. I looked at the crowd of strangers and I said one word.
“No.”
My voice was not loud, but the microphone was on. The word echoed through the entire ballroom. “No.”
The applause stopped. It did not fade. It stopped like a switch had been flicked. The silence was total. It was the loudest sound I had ever heard. I could hear a piece of ice clink in a glass. I could hear a woman gasp.
My father’s smile froze. His arm on my shoulder became a claw.
“Charlotte,” he hissed. The microphone picked it up.
“No,” I said again. This time, my voice was clear. It was strong. I put the pen down on the folder. “I will not be signing this.”
I turned. I started to walk off the stage. The trap had failed. I took two steps. I was walking toward the exit. I could feel five hundred pairs of eyes on my back. I did not look at them. I just wanted to get out.
“Charlotte.” My father’s voice was not a request. It was a command.
I did not stop. I heard a heavy footstep behind me. Then a hand grabbed my upper arm. It was my father. He spun me around. His face was not the calm, perfect mask of Richard Hail, CEO. It was red. His eyes were wide. His teeth were clenched. I had never seen him look this way. He was furious.
