Chapter 7 - The Grand Reopening
For three years, we had quietly acquired land, secured high-tech patents, and developed proprietary green-building infrastructure modules that would revolutionize commercial architecture across the country.
And for the first time, we were hosting a formal, black-tie gala to celebrate the milestone.
Invitations had gone out to mayors, city council members, top-tier investors, national architectural firms, and leading tech executives from across the western United States. It was the kind of high-society event my parents would have killed to attend—the exact kind of room where power, wealth, and prestige intersected.
Two days before the gala, my secretary handed me the final RSVP ledger.
I scanned the names, running my finger down the heavy cardstock pages.
There were CEOs of multi-national construction firms. Venture capitalists from Silicon Valley. Municipal leaders and senators.
And right near the bottom of the list, under special administrative reserves, I spotted two names I hadn't expected to see:Paul Mercer & Joanne Mercer.
I frowned, looking up at my secretary. “How did my parents end up on the guest list? Did someone from PR accidentally pull from an old Mercer Systems database?”
My secretary shook her head, adjusting her glasses. “Actually, Dr. Mercer, they didn't come through the corporate database. An RSVP card arrived in the mail yesterday afternoon. Your mother filled it out by hand and mailed it directly to our office reception.”
I walked over to the desk, picked up the physical RSVP card, and stared at it.
It was written in my mother’s familiar, elegant cursive on expensive cream stationery.Dr. Rowan Mercer, it read. We would be honored to attend your wonderful company celebration. Family should always support each other’s achievements. With love, Mom and Dad.
I let out a quiet, humorless scoff.
They were desperate. Ever since Paul Mercer’s forced medical retirement and the subsequent downsizing of their social circle, my parents had become pariahs in the country club circuit. Their friends had stopped returning their calls, and the local elite had quietly erased them from charity boards and gala committees.
Hearing that their estranged, overlooked daughter owned the glittering new tech empire dominating the city’s skyline had clearly proved too much for their egos to bear. They wanted in. They wanted to walk the red carpet, hold a glass of champagne, and pretend to the entire city that they had been proud, supportive parents all along.
“Should I send a decline notice?” my secretary asked, holding a pre-printed response envelope.
I looked at the card for a long moment, then smiled slowly.
“No,” I said, handing the card back. “Add them to the list.”
May you like
“Are you sure, Dr. Mercer? After everything they did—?”
“I’m entirely sure,” I replied smoothly. “Every great gala needs a seating chart. And this time, I’m going to make sure they have the best seats in the house.”
