“It’s only for the closest family,” my dad told me as eighty guests boarded my $1.2 million yacht for my brother’s engagement party, while he laughed and thanked me for the free venue. I didn’t argue or beg to be included. I waited until they cleared the harbor, then sent the captain six words—and minutes later, the yacht began turning back toward shore.

“She knows it’s a Cole boat.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“You’re obsessed with getting credit.”

“I’m asking whether the woman you plan to marry knows who owns the yacht.”

He laughed sharply.

“You want applause every time we leave the dock?”

“You signed an agreement saying you would never claim ownership.”

“Then sue me.”

He hung up.

Dad called five minutes later.

“Brooke’s family values tradition,” he said. “Let your brother present himself well.”

“You mean lie.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“What happens when the insurance bill arrives? Is money vulgar then?”

“Avery.”

“When I pay for the boat, it’s vulgar to mention money. When Weston stands on it, suddenly it represents family success.”

“You have always been jealous of your brother.”

I ended the call.

Soon after that, Celia Rhodes contacted me.

Celia had managed the marina long enough to recognize trouble before most owners did.