The chandelier in the main foyer was a cascade of crystal tears, bathing the entrance of our Atlanta estate in a warm, golden glow that felt entirely at odds with the cold knot tightening in my stomach. It was Kyrie’s thirty-fifth birthday, and the house was vibrating with the kind of energy that money buys—the hum of polite conversation, the clinking of Baccarat crystal, and the heavy bass of a curated playlist thumping just beneath the surface.
