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Something flashes in her eyes. Hurt maybe? It’s gone before I can be sure. “You ready for that speech?”

No. I’m not fucking ready. I’ll never be ready to stand up there and wax poetic about what a great man my father was and how much he meant to me. It’s all bullshit.

But I nod anyway. “Yeah.”

My feet feel like lead weights, each step bringing me closer to a moment I’ve been dreading for months as she guides me behind the stage.

Novalie, my beautiful little sister, is already there, her smooth blonde hair catching the dim backstage lighting. She looks small in her black dress, fragile, like she might shatter if someone speaks too loudly. Her gray eyes meet mine, and fuck, I hate seeing that worry there.

Elijah was against her being here, but it seems like she won the argument.

“Brandon…” She takes a half-step forward, then stops. “You…”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she whispers.

“Nova.”

Elijah appears, shoving a stack of cards into my chest. “Here. Try not to fuck this up.”

My fingers close around them reflexively.

“I’ll speak first,” Elijah says. “Then you. Then Nova.”

“Got it.” I flip through the cards, the words blurring together. “Say nice things about Dad. Pretend we were one big happy family. Should I cry for effect?”

“Just…” He takes a deep breath. “Just read the cards.”

Novalie’s hands twist in front of her, a nervous habit she’s had since we were kids. “Maybe we should not?”

“It’s fine,” I cut her off. “Everything’s fucking fine.”

“It’s time.” Gemma appears on Elijah’s side, her eyes darting between us. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Elijah straightens his already perfect tie and strides onto the stage. “Let’s do this.”

The spotlight hits him, and if he doesn’t look exactly like Dad up there, tall, commanding, every inch the perfect Milton heir I don’t know what would.

“Good evening, everyone.” His voice booms through the speakers. “We’re gathered here today to honor a man who shaped not just our family but an entire industry…”

I tune him out, my fingers crushing the note cards. The same recycled bullshit about legacy and vision and whatever other corporate buzzwords they could stuff into this speech.

Novalie’s hand brushes mine, feather-light. “You okay?”

“Don’t worry, baby sis.”

She shifts from foot to foot. The stage lights cast shadows under her eyes, making her look even more fragile than usual. Christ, she shouldn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t be up here. She hates crowds and hates attention. But here she is, playing the dutiful daughter while I fumble through this farce.

“I could go next,” she whispers. “If you want?”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Just… stick to the plan.”

Elijah’s up there plating perfection, garnishing every word with exactly the right amount of emotion, painting pictures of family dinners that never happened and of fatherly advice thatwas actually criticism in disguise. The audience hangs on every word, eating up this fairytale version of Charles Milton.

Meanwhile, I’m back here, raw and messy like a kitchen during rush hour, about to serve up something that’ll probably give everyone food poisoning.

“And now, my brother Brandon would like to say a few words.” Polite applause breaks out as Elijah steps away from the podium, gesturing at me.

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