“I didn’t say anything,” I answered. “You never asked.”
When they realized the scale of what I had created—retreats, weddings, corporate events, seasonal stays—Adrian’s expression shifted. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was fear. Not of me, but of what he could no longer dismiss.
Mom stepped forward again. “Your father gave you this house because he thought you needed something simple. You turned it into a business without consulting the family.”
“The family didn’t pay for any of it,” I replied. “Not the renovations, permits, staff, or the years I worked without a salary.”
Adrian scoffed. “You want praise for fixing up something Dad handed you?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I want you to stop calling hard work ‘luck’ just because it wasn’t yours.”
That hit him.
My mother then handed me a folder. “Your father is willing to fix the arrangement. Adrian will manage the property, and you’ll receive a salary.”
I didn’t even take it.
“A salary… from my own business?”
