I was the daughter of two factory workers who had passed away within months of each other when I was sixteen.
After moving between relatives and foster homes, I put myself through college with scholarships, part-time jobs, and sheer stubbornness.
By thirty, I had built a small but growing investment company specializing in distressed commercial properties.
I was not glamorous.
I simply worked harder than almost everyone around me.
Ethan admired that.
At least, I believed he did.
We married three years later.
During our honeymoon, I learned my first secret about the Bennett family.
They were not wealthy.
They only looked wealthy.
Their country club memberships, luxury cars, vacation homes, and private schools depended on refinancing old debt with new debt. They had perfected the appearance of success.
Behind closed doors, the numbers were terrifying.
One evening, Ethan sat at our kitchen table with his head buried in his hands.
