PART 1
“We need one million dollars.”
My mother stood in the middle of my Manhattan penthouse as though she still had the authority to issue commands.
“And you’re going to give it to us,” she continued, “because Chloe is still your sister.”
Those were the first words Beatrice Vance had spoken to me in nineteen years.
No hello.
No apology.
No question about whether I was happy, healthy, married, lonely, successful, or even alive.
Nothing.
My father, Arthur, placed a thick manila folder on my marble coffee table.
“Chloe made a mistake,” he said.
His voice carried the same cold certainty I remembered from childhood.
“If we replace the money before next week’s audit, this can all be handled quietly.”
I stared at the folder.
Then at him.
“Why would I handle anything for Chloe?”
My mother laughed sharply.
“Because you owe this family.”
For a moment, I said nothing.
