I turned around and shut all that "warm family togetherness" behind the door.
Out on the empty balcony, I called the lawyer my mother had appointed before she died.
"Eric. Seven years are up."
There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a quiet sigh.
"Rory… everything's ready. As long as you order, all the funds injected into Christian and Ethan's names will begin withdrawing within twenty-four hours. Estimated six days, and we can pull every last cent."
"Start."
When I hung up, it felt like the rope that had tied me down for seven years finally loosened.
Christian appeared behind me at some point, frowning.
"Who are you calling all sneaky like that?"
"Rory, I'm warning you don't take the family's money and go throw it into random investments outside."
"Raising a kid costs money everywhere. Be saving."
He lectured me like it was only natural, completely forgetting his money existed because I made it exist.
I didn't answer. I walked straight into the dining room.
The long table was loaded with food, every dish something Emma liked.
Christian carefully picked fish bones out for her, never noticing I hadn't even touched my fork.
My father was flushed from drinking, cheerful and loud.
"Rory, transfer your shares in the White family company to the baby in Emma's belly. Consider it your first gift as his mother."
I looked up at that face full of calculation and nodded once.
"Okay."
My quick agreement made all of them freeze for a beat.
Christian recovered first. Satisfaction spread across his face.
"See? Rory's always been the reasonable one."
Then he decided on my behalf: "And the shares in my company that are under your name, transfer those too. For our child. You'll do it."
Emma nestled against Christian's chest, tugging at his sleeve like she was worried for me.
"Christian, don't… Rory will be upset."
My father scoffed.
"How could she be? She's delighted. Right, Rory? Come on, toast Emma. Say a few blessings."
Christian handed me a glass of red wine.
"I can't drink," I said.
Christian's face darkened instantly.
"Can't drink? For the right to use the Manhattan port, when you were downing drinks at the table until your stomach bled, why didn't you say you couldn't handle it then?"
My father piled on, smug as ever. "Exactly. All these years you've been to how many drinking tables? You looked pretty happy back then. Half the time we told you not to go, you insisted."
These years, one of them had to keep up the Don image, and one had to keep up the righteous-father act.
The kind of humiliating work, lowering your pride to charm people, of course it was always me.
Six days. I counted silently.
Then I took the glass Christian was practically shoving into my mouth and turned to Emma.
Her triumph wasn't even hidden.
I lifted the glass and said each word clearly:
"I wish you exactly what you've been dying for."