On our third wedding anniversary, my parents slid a small black box across the table. When I opened it, a key fob with a silver bull rested inside.
“A Lamborghini?” I whispered.
My mother smiled warmly. “Happy anniversary, Samantha.”
Yes—my parents are billionaires. They built a massive logistics empire, but I’ve spent my entire life trying to prove that I’m more than just a last name. I work full-time, manage my own finances, and keep things separate because I refuse to live like a spoiled headline.
Still, the bright yellow Huracán parked outside the restaurant shattered that illusion instantly. My father snapped a quick photo of me beside it before slipping the paperwork into my purse.
“It’s titled to you,” he said. “The dealership is keeping it overnight to apply protective film. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
Derek barely said a word during dinner.
On the drive home he muttered, “Must be nice. Getting toys from Mom and Dad.”
“It’s a gift,” I replied calmly. “And it’s mine.”
His grip tightened around the steering wheel.
Derek had always been sensitive about money—especially my family’s money. I used to believe it came from pride. Lately it felt more like resentment.
The next morning he stormed into my office unannounced, brushing past the receptionist. He pushed straight into my office and slammed his hand on my desk.
“Give me the keys.”
continue to the next page.”
