I looked across the room at the Whitmores. Franklin and Delilah, Sloan’s parents, were working the room with the frantic energy of sharks that stop swimming and die. Franklin was a large man with a flushed face and a suit that cost more than my first car. Delilah was dripping in diamonds, but she kept touching her necklace, a nervous tic that betrayed her poise. They looked rich. They acted rich. But something was off. It was like looking at a high-resolution photo that had been slightly Photoshopped—the shadows didn’t match the light sources.

Garrett finally wandered over. My big brother.

“Beth! You made it,” he said, giving me a side-hug that felt obligatory. “Have you met Sloan yet? She’s incredible, right?”

“I’ve seen her,” I said neutrally.

“She’s amazing,” Garrett gushed, his eyes scanning the room for more important guests. “Mom gave her Grandma’s necklace as an engagement gift. Can you believe it? Sloan loves it.”

The air left my lungs in a painful rush. “Grandma’s necklace?”

“Yeah. The antique pendant.”

I felt a cold rage crystallize in my chest. That necklace wasn’t just jewelry. On her deathbed, our grandmother had held my hand—my hand, not Garrett’s—and told me that pendant was for me. She called me her “dreamer.” My mother knew this. She had been in the room. And yet, she had handed my inheritance to a woman who called me a stinky country girl.