The air at my parents’ lakehouse felt wrong that afternoon, thick and oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with the late August humidity. It clung to my skin like a film as I stood at the edge of the white event tent, watching my family perform what they did best: pretending everything was perfect. Fifty thousand dollars.
That’s what my parents had spent on this garden party celebrating forty years of Vanguard Logistics, my father’s trucking company. White roses in crystal vases adorned every cocktail table. String quartets in tuxedos sawed through Vivaldi despite the sweat darkening their collars.
Three ice sculptures were already melting in the heat, the largest carved into Vanguard’s logo, water streaming from the ornate “V” like the company itself was quietly bleeding out. This was theater, I realized. Performative wealth designed to convince investors and clients that everything was thriving, that the fleet expansion was under control, that the balance sheets I’d secretly reviewed told a completely different story than the one being sold under these sagging tents.
I wasn’t here as a consultant or financial advisor, despite the fact that I managed over two hundred million dollars in client assets at my firm downtown. I was here as set decoration, a daughter who filled space in family photographs and otherwise remained conveniently invisible. My brother Christopher stood at the center of the crowd near the open bar, exactly where he always positioned himself—in the spotlight.
The afternoon sun caught the crisp lines of his expensive suit and made the ice in his tumbler sparkle as he laughed too loudly at something a potential client said, clapping the man’s shoulder with practiced camaraderie. “Chris, you’ve really outdone yourself,” the man said, gesturing at the lavish spread. Christopher dipped his head with false modesty, though his eyes gleamed with hunger for the praise.
“Anything for the people who keep the wheels turning. We owe it all to partners like you.”
His wife Morgan was attached to his side like an expensive accessory, champagne flute permanently affixed to her manicured hand. She was all sharp angles and designer clothes, her smile bright and brittle as she scanned the crowd, touching Christopher’s arm every few seconds to murmur something that made her diamond earrings flash in the light.
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