“It’s enterprise security,” I said.
He scoffed. “It’s pretend.”
Mom reached for my hand with that soft, toxic sympathy she used to dress cruelty as care. “Sweetheart, we’re just worried. You can’t survive forever on dreams.”
Vanessa leaned back and added, “Or on investor money, if any of that was even real.”
That was when it clicked—something had been happening behind my back.
I remembered how two early family friends suddenly stopped returning my calls in 2020, right before my Series B. I remembered a local banker asking if I was “still dealing with that fraud rumor.” I had swallowed it and kept building. Now Vanessa’s eyes gave her away. She had helped spread it. Maybe Dad started it, but she sharpened it.
My grip tightened around my glass.
Dad noticed and smiled wider. “Careful. CEOs don’t cry at dinner.”
The old Evelyn would have defended herself. She would have pulled out press articles, awards, revenue charts, photos of my three hundred employees—anything to make them understand. But seven years had taught me that people committed to humiliating you aren’t waiting for proof. They’re waiting for you to bleed.
So I stood.
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