“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister said with a sneer, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light as she adjusted the Valdderee heels on her feet. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but couldn’t you at least have made an effort?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. I had designed this “cheap” dress myself. I owned the label on her shoes. I owned the boutique we were standing in. And one hour earlier, I had personally approved the cancellation of her modeling contract. Then my brother’s bank made the news…

Blake opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.

“Blake, you’re going to prison. Maybe minimum security if you cooperate fully. The FBI has enough to convict you twice over.”

Rachel made a choking sound, like the air had left her lungs.

“And Rachel,” I continued, “you’re unemployable in modeling. Your reputation for difficult behavior has spread through every agency that matters.”

They all surged forward at once—denials, protests, anger—until I lifted a hand.

“But,” I said, and the single word stopped them colder than shouting ever could, “I can help mitigate the damage.”

Their eyes latched onto that, desperate.

“Dad,” I said, “I’ll buy the house through a trust. Let you live here as a renter, below market rate. But you’ll need to downsize your lifestyle dramatically.”

My father’s face tightened, pride flaring and then folding under the weight of reality.

“Blake,” I said, turning to him, “I’ll provide a lawyer. A good one. One who might get you probation instead of jail time. But you’ll have to tell the truth about everything.”

Blake’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass.

“And Rachel,” I said, “there’s an entry-level position at one of my subsidiaries. Not modeling. Marketing assistant. Minimum wage to start. You’ll work your way up like everyone else.”

“That’s…” Rachel’s voice wobbled. “That’s humiliating.”

“That’s opportunity,” I said simply. “More than you offered me when I needed it.”