“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.

This time, Brooke’s parents, Weston’s friends, Dad’s business acquaintances, and nearly eighty guests stood within earshot.

“It’s complicated,” Dad said.

Brooke looked back at Weston.

“You told me this yacht was yours.”

“It is, practically.”

“You said your father was giving it to us after the wedding.”

“He is.”

Her eyes dropped to the paperwork again.

“Then why did you sign an agreement saying you could never claim ownership?”

Weston’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Brooke stared at him for several seconds.

Then she slowly removed her engagement ring.

She placed it in his palm and folded his fingers around it.

“If you lied to me about where you proposed, what we were going to own, and the sister you called jealous, I don’t know what part of our future is real.”

Nobody spoke.

A halyard tapped softly against a mast nearby.

Somewhere aboard Second Wind, a bottle rolled inside a cooler.