Chapter 2

Two hours earlier, I'm sitting on the back terrace of our Beacon Hill townhouse, peeling a fresh fig while my mother arranges peonies in a crystal vase.

The Vance family's lawyer is perched on the edge of an antique bench, clearly uncomfortable. My adoptive dad, in a worn cashmere quarter-zip and boat shoes, is watering the boxwood hedges and pretending not to listen.

"Miss Winthrop, Mr. and Mrs. Vance would very much like you to come home."

I bite into the fig. "Is the food good there?"

He stalls. "I beg your pardon?"

"The food. At their house. Is it good? Because I'm not going if it isn't. Beacon Hill girls have delicate stomachs and zero tolerance for mediocrity."

My mother sets down the vase and gives a small, polite laugh. The kind that has buried entire careers.

"What my daughter means," she says, smoothing my hair, "is that she'll visit. Briefly. To assess."

Dad walks over, dripping watering can still in hand, and slides an envelope into my bag. "Here. Copy of your trust documents. The deed to the Louisburg Square property. And Robert's direct line. He'll have a team on the ground in twenty minutes if you so much as raise an eyebrow."

Mom adjusts the collar of my linen dress. Her voice goes soft in that way that always makes my chest tight.

"Sweetheart. If their house isn't warm, you come home. Winthrop women don't beg anyone to love them."

I almost cry. Almost. Instead I smile.

"Relax. I'm just going to check the quality of their parenting. If they fail inspection, I'm returning the merchandise."

The driver loads my bag. As the car pulls down the cobblestone lane, my mother stands under the wisteria arch and waves.

The sky is impossibly blue. A church bell rings somewhere on Charles Street.

I think: no matter how much money the Vances have, they can't buy back the twenty years that built me.

Two hours later, the car stops in front of their New Jersey monstrosity.

The driver opens my door. I stare up at the gilded columns and fountain and pause for exactly three seconds.

"Did your decorator have a personal vendetta against Versailles, or…?"

The driver coughs to hide a laugh.

I walk in. Before I even reach the living room, I hear it. Soft, breathy, theatrical weeping.

"Mom, Dad, now that she's back, I should probably leave, right? I don't want to be in the way…"

My heels stop on the marble.

Oh. So this is the flavor. Wet doe eyes and weaponized fragility. Amateur hour.

Four people sit in the formal living room. Charles. Eleanor. Julian, scrolling his phone like I'm an inconvenience. And Chloe, perched on the loveseat in white, dabbing her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

She springs up the moment she sees me, lip quivering. "Sister."

"Hi."

She falters. Clearly expected more drama.

Eleanor squeezes Chloe's hand and looks at me with that complicated mother-of-two expression I'm sure she practiced in the mirror.

"Evelyn. We're so glad you're home. But I need to say something first. Chloe may not be biologically ours, but she's been our daughter for twenty years. You can't expect us to just…"

"Understood."

She exhales, relieved.

Charles jumps in. "So don't come in here trying to take her place. We won't shortchange you, but you will not bully Chloe."

"Got it."

Julian finally looks up, jaw tight. "I hope you really do get it. Chloe has anxiety. She doesn't handle stress well."

Chloe's lashes flutter downward. "Please don't talk to her like that, Julian. She just got here. If she wants my bedroom, she can have it. I'll move to the attic, I really don't mind…"

I finally meet her eyes.

"Which room is yours?"

She brightens. Bingo, her cue. "The south-facing suite on the second floor. The one that… should've been yours."

Eleanor clutches her hand. "Don't say that. It's your room."

Julian's voice drops cold. "Evelyn. Don't even think about it."

I blink slowly.

"Did I say I wanted it?"

The room goes silent.

Chloe's face flickers. Just a half-second crack in the porcelain.

"I just thought you'd be upset, sister."

I smile.

"Honey, you preemptively absorb other people's feelings so hard, you should be charging a consulting fee. Did anyone ask you to perform?"

Julian's nostrils flare. "Does everything you say have to come with a knife in it?"

"No," I say, voice perfectly sincere. "You all keep insisting on performing a soap opera in front of me. I can't follow the plot. You can slow down if you'd like."

The housekeeper, Mrs. Whitfield, materializes to escort me upstairs. Chloe trails behind us all the way to the end of the second-floor hallway, where Mrs. Whitfield pushes open a narrow door.

Dust billows out. Inside: stacked picture frames, a broken lamp, cardboard boxes, and curtains so gray you can't tell the original color.

Chloe covers her mouth, eyes wide and wet. "Sister, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it hadn't been cleaned. Please, take my room tonight."

I glance at the bare mattress, then turn to Mrs. Whitfield.

"This is the room you prepared for the biological daughter?"

Mrs. Whitfield shifts. "The Vances said, temporarily…"

I raise a hand to stop her, then pull out my phone and snap a few photos.

Julian smirks behind me. "What, posting a sob story online?"

"No. Sending them to my mother. She loves fresh gossip material on dysfunctional rich families."

Eleanor hurries up the stairs, flustered. "Evelyn, don't blow this out of proportion. The room can be cleaned. Chloe is already upset. Don't push her."

I look her dead in the eye.

"Mrs. Vance. I haven't said a word yet, and your whole family has already convicted me. Efficient. Just not very smart."

Julian explodes. "Evelyn!"

I slip my phone back into my bag, calm as a Sunday morning.

"You don't have to shout. My hearing is excellent. So is my allergy to favoritism."