The moment I walked into that ballroom, I heard her say it. Sloan Whitmore, my brother’s perfect fiancée, leaning toward her bridesmaids with a champagne glass in her manicured hand. Her whisper was just loud enough to carry — designed that way, I think.
She never looked up when she said it. “Oh, great. The stinky country girl is here.”
Her friends giggled like a pack of hyenas in designer dresses.
I stood in the entrance of the room and let the words land, let them settle, the way you let a cold wind hit you before deciding it’s not going to stop you. What Sloan didn’t know — what nobody in that room knew — was that I had signed the deed to this hotel three years ago. Every chandelier above her head.
Every piece of silverware she was eating with. Every square inch of Italian marble under her overpriced heels. All of it belonged to me.My name is Bethany Burns. I’m thirty-one years old, and I grew up in Milbrook, Pennsylvania — a town so small that the only traffic jam we ever had was when old Mr. Henderson’s cows escaped and blocked Main Street for three hours.
I left at eighteen, and I never really looked back. Not because I hated where I came from, but because my family had made it crystal clear there wasn’t room for me there. I had an older brother, Garrett — the golden child, the son who could do no wrong.
Everything I did was measured against him, and I always came up short. If I got an A, Garrett had gotten an A-plus. If I made the softball team, Garrett had been team captain.
