I didn’t stand. I slid the leather portfolio to the center of the table, right next to Diane’s crystal mimosa pitcher. ‘Actually, Diane, before I refill anything, I think the adults should see this.’ Her smile cracked. Brendan, my husband, gave me a look that begged me not to make a scene. I gave him a look back that said the scene was already written, and he wasn’t the lead. The family lawyer, Howard, opened the portfolio. His face went the color of the eggshell wallpaper. Inside were the acquisition documents for Whitmore & Sloan’s largest distributor, Marsten Logistics. The company Diane had been bleeding for nine months trying to buy. The company that, as of Friday at 4:47 PM, had been acquired by a small marketing consultancy out of Columbus, Ohio. Mine. The ‘cute little hobby’ I’d built quietly in our basement office while she called me Brendan’s wife. I’d used my own savings, two investors who believed in me, and every contact Diane had dismissed as beneath her. ‘You’ve been trying to lowball Marsten since March,’ I said, keeping my voice as soft as hers had been. ‘They didn’t want to sell to you. They sold to me for a dollar over your last offer. So as of Monday, Whitmore & Sloan’s entire Northeast supply chain runs through my company.’ Howard cleared his throat. ‘Diane, this is… legally airtight. She owns the corridor.’ The cousins stopped chewing. A board member set down his fork like it had become too heavy. Diane’s hand trembled around her mimosa. ‘You wouldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘I wouldn’t what, Diane? Renegotiate? Of course I would. The adults should talk about the company.’ I finally stood, smoothed my blazer, and walked toward the kitchen. At the doorway, I turned. ‘I’ll get that coffee now. Cream and sugar, everyone?’ Nobody laughed this time. Brendan caught up to me by the sink, eyes wide, and for the first time in three years, he asked me what I wanted, instead of telling me.
