Two nights ago was the gala. I stood in a ballroom wearing a twelve-thousand-dollar tuxedo and watched my father buy my assistant like livestock at auction. That’s a whole f*****g mess in its own regard. Rae Everett, whom I hired myself, whom I promoted to my personal EA when I took over as CEO, whom I mentored, protected, and considered one of the few truly good people in my orbit, became—like my mother—another victim I could not save. She stood on that stage in a dress my father chose for her, smiling that brave, tight-lipped smile of hers, even as her skin went pale and clammy with terror.
I bid five hundred thousand dollars for her. I thought that would be enough. Then my father raised his paddle and said five million without even looking at me.
Five million dollars. For a f*****g da
