Nolan’s expression tightened the moment the catering company was mentioned.
People always referred to Pierce Catering as “our business,” but legally, it belonged to me. I built it from scratch in our garage in Columbus, Ohio, years before Nolan could tell the difference between a catering proposal and a tax write-off. He charmed clients. I handled the cooking, contracts, payroll, staffing, negotiations, vendors, and every disaster caused by his expensive ideas.
His mother, Marjorie Pierce, never acknowledged that.
In her mind, Nolan was the visionary. I was just the woman preparing sandwich trays.
That evening, while I was taking my wedding dress out of the closet and folding it carefully into a donation box, my phone buzzed with a photo from a mutual friend.
Marjorie had organized a banquet.
