My husband locked me outside in the pouring rain, shivering and soaked—until my wealthy grandmother pulled up. She looked at me, then at the house, and whispered something that changed everything…

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.