Daniel didn't come home that night. He sent one text at midnight: I'll collect my things tomorrow. Don't make this ugly.

I paid the babysitter, checked on Leo, nine years old and asleep with his football socks still on, and went into the study.

In the bottom drawer, under old tax files, was a blue folder. Daniel had never once opened it. He'd never been curious about anything that was mine.

Inside was a letter in my father's handwriting.

Gracie, Daniel is proud. Let him feel he built it. But the company is yours. Keep it quiet until you need it. I hope you never do. Dad.

Under the letter was a share certificate. Whitmore Holdings Ltd: 62% of Hart Interiors. Twelve years ago, Daniel's first business had collapsed and he was drowning in debt. My father, Edward Whitmore, bought Hart Interiors for him through a holding company, in my name. Daniel signed the papers without reading them. He thought my father was a silent investor who'd been paid back long ago.

When Dad died three years ago, Whitmore Holdings passed to me. Since then I'd read every board report and approved every decision quietly, through my lawyer.

Daniel thought he'd built an empire.

He was standing on my floor.