On Christmas Eve, in the middle of our family dinner at the company founder’s mansion, my father slammed his hand on the table and demanded, “Name the buyer.” I stood up, raised my glass in front of all his executives and my golden-boy brother, and calmly said, “Me”—and that was the night I took back the company they’d sworn I was never good enough to run.

On Christmas Day, my father stood at the head of the long mahogany table in our Burlington mansion and shattered what was left of the illusion that we were a family. He held his wineglass like a gavel, stem pinched between his thick fingers, chandelier light catching on the cut crystal. The table was crowded with china and polished silver.

Outside, Vermont snow fell in slow, lazy flakes.

Inside, the air felt tight enough to snap.

“I’ve sold Pure Harvest Co.,” my father said, his voice as flat and cold as the lake in January.

“The buyer takes over next month.” He paused long enough for our stomachs to drop, then added, “And you get nothing. Any of you.”

My older brother Bryce’s fork clattered against his plate.

“You what?” he exploded, cheeks flushing red.

Bryce always looked like a boardroom headshot brought to life. Tonight, the mask cracked.

My older sister Lorie’s perfectly glossed lips parted.

“This is our legacy,” she snapped.

“You can’t just sell it without consulting us.”

At the far end of the table, my younger sister Aspen stared at her phone until the words sank in. She gasped.

…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇