On Christmas Day, my father stood at the head of the long mahogany table in our Burlington mansion—and shattered whatever remained of the illusion that we were a family.
He held a wine glass like a gavel, the stem clenched between his thick fingers. The chandelier’s light shimmered on the crystal facets. The table was covered with china and polished silver. Vermont snow fell slowly outside the windows. Inside, the air felt so tense it felt like it might burst.
“I sold Pure Harvest Co.,” my father said in a flat, icy tone, like a frozen lake in January. “The buyer takes over next month.” He paused, just long enough to take our breath away. “And you get nothing. None of you.”
My older brother, Bryce, clattered his fork against his plate.
“What did you do?” — he exploded, his face flushed red. Bryce always looked like he’d been cut out of a corporate portrait. Today, the mask had cracked.
My older sister, Lori, parted her perfectly painted lips.
“This is our legacy,” she hissed. “You can’t sell everything 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.
“My brand is dead,” she whispered. Pure Harvest was the foundation of her influencer persona. Organic juice shots wouldn’t exist without our gardens.
My mother, Doris, stared at her cranberry sauce, her shoulders hunched, her cream cashmere sweater seemingly swallowing her. She didn’t say a word.
I sat in the middle of the table, holding a glass of Cabernet. My pulse pounded in my throat, but my face remained calm. I’d rehearsed this moment too long to show my nerves.
“You sold it?” Bryce repeated. “To whom?”
“To a group of private investors,” my father said. “You don’t need to know anymore. The deal is done.”
His tone made it clear the discussion was closed.
Bryce slammed his palm on the table; the silverware jumped.
“I’ve given this company ten years!”
“You’re not the only one,” Lori snapped. “You betrayed us all for money?!”
Aspen finally looked up from her phone.
“What about my product line? My subscribers? Dad, you can’t do this.”
He smirked. That arrogant smirk had accompanied me throughout my childhood.
“Life’s unfair. You’ll all get by. Or you won’t. It’s not my concern anymore.”
They scattered. The golden children who had spent their entire lives basking in his approval suddenly felt small and helpless.
I took a slow sip of wine.
“Name the buyer,” Bryce demanded. “I want a name.”
My father glanced over me, as always—as if I were still the girl who brought coffee and took notes.
I put down my glass, stood, and looked him straight in the eye.
“It was me,” I said.
Silence fell on the room so quickly, it was as if the air had vanished.
Bryce blinked.
“What?”
“The buyer—me. More precisely, my company. Greenwave Organics.” I held my gaze on my father. “You signed the papers under my pseudonym—J.M. Harper.”
For the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
Laurie swallowed.
“You?” You left nine years ago with a suitcase. You don’t buy companies like Pure Harvest.
“You used to fill out warehouse reports,” Bryce snapped. “You don’t run companies of this size.”
Aspen’s phone slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor.
“You… Harper?” she whispered.
I let their disbelief wash over me like the wind.
“Sit down,” my father barked. “Don’t talk nonsense. This isn’t a game, Marina. We’re talking about real money.”
“Exactly,” I said. “This is about the company your grandmother built and you ruined. And how you sold it to your daughter, a woman you never thought worthy of listening to.
If you want to understand how we got to this point, you have to rewind. To the gardens. To the woman who saw me before anyone else.