I walked into my brother’s engagement party. The bride whispered with a sneer, “the stinky country girl is here!” She didn’t know I owned the hotel or that the bride’s family was about to learn the truth the bloody way.
The moment I walked into that ballroom, I heard her say it—Sloan Whitmore, my brother’s perfect fiancée, leaning toward her bridesmaids with a glass of champagne in her manicured hand. Her whisper was loud enough to carry across the room, and I know she meant it that way. “Oh, great. The stinky country girl…
