Page 130 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

And Evelyn is just as entertaining to watch. Seriously, if I didn’t know this was all bullshit, I’d swear it was the perfect ribeye with a glass of Killian’s 1990 Château Margaux. She’s dressed to absolutely kill in a deep burgundy that fits like the universe tailored it for her, she’s got the room lit perfectly, wines arranged on the side table in ascending vintage order like she had staff doing nothing else this morning, and when she opened the presentation she did it the way she does everything, like she invented the concept of being impressive and has been patiently waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

I’ll say it. Evelyn could sell wine to Jesus. And I mean that knowing full well that Jesus can make wine himself and therefore has zero rational reason to buy it. She could still close that deal. Probably in under twenty minutes.

My parents are keeping pace with her, which is the part I wasn’t prepared for. My dad’s in a suit that actually fits him for once, my mom’s got her hair done the way she does it when she needs someone’s full trust, and the two of them are running the Thorne Curated Collection pitch like they’ve done it a hundred times, which, per Maddox’s file, they basically have. Watching from inside the audience instead of being the one they’re pitching to is a completely different experience. I can see the mechanics of it from here. The warmth they produce on cue. The way they read the room and give it back exactly what it wants to believe.

I understand now why it’s worked for as long as it has.

I’m here as project lead, supposedly. I’ve been contributing professional observations about subscriber retention, asking questions at the right moments, and every time I do my mom’s eyes go warm with the proud look she saves for when she thinks I’m on her side. I know that look from the inside. I’ve been performing for it since I was eight.

Killian’s at the head of the table doing what Killian does, which is being the most controlled person in the room while asking questions that sound like enthusiasm and are actually receipts. Maddox beside him has the kind of relaxed authority that makes people feel like they’re talking to a man who’s already decided to say yes, which is how he’s made money his whole life. Asher’s asked two questions about the wine program sourcing that my dad answered with complete confidence and that were, based on one glance at Asher’s expression, answered wrong.

We’re putting on an equally good show and I’m kind of proud of us.

Evelyn’s phone lights up on the table. She glances at it, something moving through her face too fast to catch, and sets it face down.

It lights up again.

“Take it, Evelyn,” Killian says.

She holds his gaze for exactly a beat and then excuses herself with the grace of a woman who has never left a room badly in her life, and the door closes.

My parents recalibrate instantly, the way they always do when a variable shifts, and my dad’s warmth dials up as the room shrinks to just us.

“I must say, Mr. Thorne, this has been an incredibly productive morning. What we’re building here is genuinely transformative for the estate’s international profile.”

“It’s compelling,” Killian agrees, in the voice I now know is his most dangerous one. “Mind if I pull something up?”

He’s already got the remote.

What goes up on the monitor is not the Thorne Curated Collection deck.

It’s their history. Organized like a proper investor brief, clean and professional and absolutely devastating. Venture by venture, year by year, outcome by outcome. The MLM. The crypto scheme that took eleven investors. The real estate syndicate that never purchased a single property. Names, amounts, documented complaints, settlement agreements. The 2019 situation I knew existed from what Maddox told me and am seeing in detail for the first time right now, and I understand immediately why he waited to tell me.

My dad’s face doesn’t break exactly. But something shifts underneath the smoothness.

My mom’s hand tightens on the table.

“This is a mischaracterization,” my dad says, the warmth gone flat underneath the words. “Business disagreements. Investors who didn’t understand the terms they’d agreed to⁠—”

“Eleven documented complaints,” Maddox says pleasantly. “Across four countries. This one from 2019 is particularly detailed. Want to walk us through it, Jason, or should I?”

My dad looks at me.

And there it is, the moment I knew was coming from the second the room changed. The pivot. Because when everything else stops working, I’m the angle.

“Sweet pea.” He goes soft, the voice from when I was little, the one that used to make me feel like I was his whole world before I was old enough to understand what it cost. “You know us. You know this isn’t who we are. Don’t let them do this to us.”

My mom’s eyes fill. “We’re your parents, Harper. We’re family.”

I look at them.

I look at them the way I haven’t been able to for twenty-four years, without flinching, without the reflex to soften what I’m feeling or make room for the version of them I always hoped existed underneath the version I kept getting. I look at the presentation behind Killian, all those names and dates and amounts, all those people who believed exactly what I used to believe, and I look at my parents’ faces and I see them clearly.

“You might be my mom and dad,” I say. “But you haven’t been my parents for a very long time.”

The warmth drops off my dad’s face like he never had it.

“So that’s it.” His voice is different now, the one that only comes out when nothing’s working anymore. His eyes go around the table, me, Killian, Maddox, Asher, and back to me, and what’s in them is ugly. “You whore yourself out to three men and suddenly you think you’re better than us?”