PART 2: At Christmas Dinner, My Brother Boasted About the Company He Never Knew Was Mine
The Mercer dining room had always been designed to intimidate.
The ceiling rose almost two stories above a mahogany table long enough to seat eighteen. Antique silver reflected candlelight across white linen, and portraits of dead relatives watched from paneled walls as though evaluating whether each person sitting beneath them deserved the family name.
I took my usual seat near the far end.
Preston sat across from me.
He looked exactly as he always did when he knew he was about to be praised.
Perfect suit.
Expensive watch positioned where everyone could see it.
Silk tie loosened just enough to imply that powerful people worked too hard to care about appearances while clearly caring about nothing else.
Aunt Corinne sat beside Mom.
She had already finished enough vermouth to make her louder than normal.
Dad took the chair at the head of the table.
Dinner began with prime rib.
The attack began before I finished my first bite.
“So,” Preston said, “I heard Mother finally found something productive for you.”
I glanced up.
He grinned.
“The nanny job.”
Mom smiled.
“The Montgomerys are wonderful people.”
Preston cut into his steak.
“That might actually be good for you.”
“How?”
“Structure.”
He said it as though I were seventeen.
“Working regular hours. Being accountable. Doing something practical instead of disappearing into laboratories and coffee shops.”
Aunt Corinne laughed.
I drank water.
My family had always imagined academic work involved sitting around thinking interesting thoughts until somebody mailed you a diploma.
They had no idea what my doctoral program required.
No idea about the overnight lab schedules.
No idea about the years of neural modeling.
No idea how many times our early prosthetic interface failed before one patient moved two fingers on command.
They did not know because none of them had ever asked a question long enough to hear the answer.
Mom passed the potatoes.
“It’s respectable work.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“And the Montgomerys are influential.”
“That too.”
Mom smiled as if she had won something.
I set down my fork.
“I’m not taking the position.”
The movement at the table stopped almost simultaneously.
Preston looked delighted.
“Of course you aren’t.”
Mom’s smile vanished.
“Brooke.”
“I told you already.”
Preston threw his napkin beside his plate.
“Why work forty hours when Dad keeps handing you bailout money?”
Dad’s eyebrows drew together.
“That is enough.”
For half a second, I almost believed he meant Preston.
Then he looked at me.
“Your brother has a point.”
Of course he did.
Dad leaned back.
“We have allowed you to indulge intellectual interests for years.”
Allowed.
I kept my expression neutral.
“At some point, adulthood requires direction.”
“I have direction.”
“Toward what?”
I could have answered.
Biomedical neural architecture.
Robotic mobility systems.
Three continents of clinical partnerships.
Forty thousand patients.
Instead, I asked, “What exactly does Preston do that you find so directional?”
My brother laughed.
“Here we go.”
Dad looked pleased.
“Your brother is about to bring one of the largest technology clients in the country into his firm.”
Aunt Corinne nearly clapped.
“Tell her.”
Preston pretended reluctance for perhaps two seconds.
Then his posture changed.
“My managing partners selected me to lead a major pitch.”
“For whom?”
He swirled his wine.
“Aetheris Dynamics.”
I lowered my eyes toward my plate before anyone could read my reaction.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Preston continued.
“They’re restructuring their outside counsel relationships ahead of a massive expansion.”
Mom looked at me triumphantly, as though Preston personally owned part of the company.
“They’re worth billions.”
“Four point eight,” Preston corrected.
I looked up.
“Four point eight billion?”
His smile widened.
“At the latest valuation.”
“That sounds demanding.”
“You have no idea.”
Actually, I did.
That afternoon, I had spent two hours reviewing a proposed European manufacturing structure with our internal legal team.
I knew exactly how demanding Aetheris could be.
Preston leaned forward.
“They’ve restored functional movement in tens of thousands of spinal-injury patients. Neural robotics. Proprietary interfaces. Global patents. The whole thing is basically impossible for outsiders to understand.”
“Yet you understand it?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I understand clients.”
“What about the science?”
“That’s what technical people are for.”
I almost smiled.
Preston continued.
“The founder is apparently some complete recluse. Nobody can get near them. No interviews. No public events. Everything goes through proxies.”
Aunt Corinne waved her wine glass.
“One of those awkward computer geniuses.”
“Probably,” Preston said.
I cut another piece of steak.
The founder in question was eating prime rib six feet away from him.
Dad nodded approvingly.
“People like that need men who can control a room.”
Men.
I wondered if he heard himself.
Preston agreed.
“Tech founders are brilliant at code and terrible at people. You have to project confidence or they walk all over you.”
I placed my knife down.
“And you think that is what Aetheris wants?”
“It’s what every major client wants.”
“How do you know?”
Preston gave me the look he had used since childhood whenever he believed I had wandered into a subject above my level.
“Brooke, firms don’t win billion-dollar companies by being polite.”
“How do they win them?”
“Leverage. Relationships. Presence.”
“Ethics?”
Aunt Corinne laughed.
Preston did not.
“You wouldn’t understand how elite legal business works.”
“I probably wouldn’t.”
That answer satisfied him.
He leaned back.
“Honestly, once we land this account, equity partnership is basically mine.”
Dad raised his glass.
“To Preston.”
Mom followed.
“To Preston.”
Corinne did too.
I lifted my water.
Not because I wished him success.
Because I wanted to see exactly how far he would go before the night ended.
The information was useful.
Earlier that afternoon, Arthur Vance—the managing partner whose name appeared first on Preston’s law firm—had sent a request through our executive liaison team asking for five private minutes with Aetheris leadership before the formal pitch.
He had emphasized one detail.
Preston Mercer claimed a close personal connection to the founder.
I had initially assumed Preston had exaggerated knowing somebody connected to our investors.
Now I understood.
He had been selling me.
Not the real me.
The fictional version of me he believed existed.
His useless sister.
His dependent sister.
The sister who needed Dad’s cash and Mom’s job applications.
Somehow, while mocking that person privately, Preston had also promised his firm that the family connection would help him secure Aetheris.
The arrogance fascinated me.
“You’ve spoken to the founder?” I asked.
Preston hesitated.
“Not directly.”
“But your partners think you have access?”
“I have relationships.”
“With whom?”
His jaw tightened.
“Confidential.”
I nodded.
“Of course.”
Mom looked annoyed.
“Stop interrogating your brother.”
“I’m curious.”
“You should be inspired.”
Aunt Corinne leaned toward me.
“Maybe Preston can get you a job once he’s partner.”
Mom laughed.
Dad smiled.
Preston tilted his head as though considering a generous possibility.
“What skills do you have?”
I looked directly at him.
“Some coding.”
He laughed.
“Maybe document review.”
Corinne tapped the table.
“Mailroom.”
That produced another round of laughter.
I sat quietly through it.
The sound was familiar.
My perceived failure had been entertainment in this family for years.
Not cruelty, according to them.
Motivation.
Jokes.
Tough love.
Some families used childhood photographs to remember each other.
Mine used hierarchy.
Preston successful.
Brooke drifting.
Dad powerful.
Mom refined.
Everyone knowing their place.
The arrangement worked because I had never challenged it directly.
My success happened somewhere else.
So to them, it did not exist.
I looked at Preston.
“I’d be careful promising your firm that account.”
His smile faded slightly.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that a company at that scale probably evaluates character as closely as technical competence.”
He laughed.
“Character?”
“Sometimes.”
“Brooke, billion-dollar companies care about results.”
“I suppose we’ll find out.”
Dad frowned.
“Why are you being difficult tonight?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re jealous.”
There it was.
The explanation waiting anytime I questioned Preston.
Mom reached for her wine.
“Your brother’s success doesn’t diminish you.”
“I agree.”
Preston smirked.
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“You might want to remember the same thing.”
His smirk vanished.
For the first time all evening, he did not know how to answer.
Dessert arrived twenty minutes later.
Lemon mascarpone tart.
Coffee.
More wine.
Mom resumed discussing the Montgomery interview.
I repeated that I would not go.
Her voice sharpened.
Dad’s patience thinned.
Across the table, Preston checked his email repeatedly.
The news embargo was scheduled to lift at any moment.
My phone vibrated once inside my purse.
I did not need to look.
I already knew.
Somewhere outside that room, my name was beginning to move across financial news feeds.
And inside the Mercer dining room, my family still believed the most important event of the evening was convincing me to show up for a nanny interview at eight the next morning.
END PART 2
