Friday came, eventually, a yellow promise pawing at the sky and my window. The sun blinded me in a sea of orange and pink when I woke.

"Hello?" a woman's voice sailed into the room.

I shelled up like a box turtle.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Mom said, a smile on her face as bright as that pesky sun. "It's almost lunchtime, but I thought I'd let you rest. We all went through so much yesterday, after all."

"Hi." I looked down at the sweatshirt I had slept in. There was a spot of grease on the sleeve from the grilled cheese I ate at the diner last night; I hadn't felt much like attending the fake family dinner. The t-shirt wouldn't do. Red alert—I hadn't brought enough clothes with me because I didn't think I'd be staying this long.

"Your room is still exactly the same as you left it, honey." Mom wrung her hands. "Your father insisted..."

Of course he did. But I realized I might still find some clothes that fit me, given that I hadn't changed on the outside in the past decade. On the inside—well, that was a whole other story.

My "Be right down!" was Mom's cue to give me some privacy.

I couldn't help feeling sluggish, a hangover from the pity party I had thrown myself last night. My skull felt like it was being cleaved in two. I wrestled my hair into a fresh bun, but I refused to use the tub for the time being. When Victor, my father, first showed me the bathroom attached to my room with its own Jacuzzi, he said, "Bet you feel like Cinderella," because he was an idiot.

This house was made for someone without a soul, so I guessed it made sense that my father wanted it so badly. I could imagine how his eyes lit up when he first walked through the five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath new construction. This place always felt like a costume I was forced to wear. It was opulent and show-offy; it screamed money, but it didn't whisper 'home.' It screamed wealth—Victor's wealth—but it whispered nothing of me. It was too much, too loud, a constant reminder of a life I never truly belonged to. Everywhere I looked, it was Victor's taste, Victor's statement. It was all Victor, a monument to his ego. None of it felt like me. This wasn't a home; it was a trophy case, and I was just another gilded object within it. It was a stage, and I was just playing a part, entering someone else's life—a life I never chose.

First, I called my sweet elderly neighbor and left a message on her machine saying that I wouldn't be on the 3:59 p.m. Greenville to Montreal flight this afternoon. I explained that something had come up unexpectedly and that I was staying for a few days after the funeral, adding that she shouldn't worry because I was fine. I also mentioned that I had been feeding the one-eyed cat that hung out under her porch. Sorry. I told her there were some cans of Friskies under my bed if she wouldn't mind using them, and apologized again.

Then I called Jana, my manager at Saint Mitch Hospital, and told her I needed some more time off because of my father's death. She told me to take all the time I needed. What I really needed was the money, but I took her word for it that my job would be waiting for me when I got back.

Finally, it was time to have lunch with everyone before the will reading. The mere thought of facing my mother and my brother in that formal dining room felt like another performance of a role that wasn't truly mine. For almost every family like Eli's was—full of love and happiness—there was one like mine, where the happy times were just the frosting on a dessert, used to cover up the misshapen lump that hadn't come out of the oven properly.

The dining room at Carmichael Manor was, like everything else around here, a testament to my father's taste for grandeur. It was a space designed to impress rather than invite intimacy. Heavy and ornate crystal chandeliers cast a cold, unwavering light across the polished oak table, which was long enough to seat a dozen, though today only four places were set. The walls were adorned with portraits of stern-faced Carmichael ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow every hesitant movement. Heavy velvet drapes the color of bruised plums blocked out most of the sunshine, lending the room a perpetual twilight.

Mom swept in, waving her arms, the flowy sleeves of her frilly, fluffy blouse making her look like a deranged butterfly. "Now, isn't it lovely that we are all finally gathered together here today?" She dumped a floral centerpiece on the table—a forced burst of color amid the somber faces and muted tones, whose fragrance did little to dispel the underlying tension.

"Hrmph." My brother, Tom, slumped in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like a barricade.

Beside him, Beverly, his wife, sat quietly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes, kind but downcast, met mine with a fleeting, sympathetic glance before quickly returning to her plate. "That's a nice outfit, Rhiannon."

It felt like a peace offering of some sort—a bridge between Tom and me. She was a gentle presence, a silent observer in the storm of Carmichael emotions, and her shyness only amplified the underlying discomfort.

My eyes darted down to my top. "Thanks. Dad—fuck—Victor chose it for me a long time ago." One of my hands balled into a fist, my knuckles pushing out like hilltops.

Mom flenched at the swear word. Oh, come on—her daughter had been away from home for a decade, and the part she found unpalatable was a four-letter word?

"I suppose Beverly is right, Rhiannon. You do look great," Tom said. "I guess ten years of no contact with your mother, your father, and your brother is the best diet there is."

Someone dropped a fork.

Beverly's face fell open. "Tom," she hisses, looking at him with the eyes of a wounded doe. "You can't say that!"

Tom looked at me for a moment, then pushed out a laugh. "Oh, don't be silly." He grinned. "Rhiannon knows I'm only joking, don't you?"

I grinned back, ensuring there was something sharp about it so Tom could feel the edge. It seemed the Carmichael family had more landmines lying around—live and ticking even after ten years. We hadn't even gotten to our starters and one had already blown up. The air was thick with unspoken words, a palpable weight that even the arrival of the catered lunch seemed unable to lift.

Five caterers bustled around in the kitchen, heating up the pre-prepared meals in the oven. Meanwhile, trays of meticulously arranged salads, cold cuts, and delicate pastries sat on a side table, emphasizing our family's wealth even in our grief. Yet the atmosphere felt sterile, devoid of the warmth a home-cooked meal might have offered. Lorraine's smile was too bright, and her offers of water and bread to Beverly were too frequent—a desperate attempt to smooth over the jagged edges of our strained family dynamic. She seemed determined to create an illusion of normalcy, a fragile facade against the raw grief and simmering resentments. Yet this wasn't a family gathered for a comforting meal; it was an orchestrated tableau, each of us playing a part in a drama we hadn't chosen.

"Would anyone like some more wine?" Mom grasped the neck of the bottle servilely as we sampled the food. "Rhi? Tom?"

"Actually, you know what? Can I have something stronger?" I asked, throwing out a bomb of my own.

"Um, I..." Mom began, just as Tom huffed, "No," giving me the exact look I used to get from our father.

"Maybe another time. And Tom... please," Mom added.

I guessed the poor woman thought this meal would be a cease-fire where everyone was on their best behavior, but we were only on course one of three and look where we already were.

"It's okay, Mom. My dearest brother would never hurt me," I said, announcing it as if he weren't sitting right there. Tom tensed; I could feel it in the air around us.

Opposite us, Mom passed the platter to Beverly first. Beverly smiled politely, spooning two piles of rice and peas onto her plate like small rockfalls.

"So, Thomas." I speared a piece of chorizo, ready to unearth the hatchet. It could have been the wine, or it could have been something else, but I was pissed at the way my big brother had been treating me. "Mom tells me you've been married for two years, yet you hadn't mentioned her to me at all. You even moved her into our house for a few months?" The words clipped upward like a question, needling him on purpose.

"Why would you tell her all these details, Mom? What the hell? Whose side are you on? It's my life, and she... she's practically a stranger." Tom's upper lip trembled, and I could make out the ghost of a pathetic mustache he had probably been trying to grow since high school.

Mom took a sharp swig of her wine. "I hadn't found the right time to bring it up yet in private. Rhiannon is not a stranger." She leaned into the word. "I thought this would bring you closer. Help you catch up faster."

"Easy, big brother. Just making conversation." I stood up and let my fork dangle, scraping the plate. "That's what you do at family luncheons. You've hardly been in the house since I returned, so we haven't had many opportunities to talk in private or become less of a stranger to one another." I leaned on the word the same way Mom had.

Tom's hands dropped into his lap, tightening into fists as a muscle ticked in his jaw. No part of the table was safe from outbreaks and flare-ups. They were everywhere since Victor died and since my return. Tom clearly thought everything was my fault, though I didn't quite know how yet, as the tension simmered just below the surface.

"That's not funny, Rhiannon. Do me a favor: shut up and sit down," Tom spat out, his voice low and venomous.

A small sound escaped Beverly. "Please don't speak to her like that," she murmured, her eyes suddenly watery. Her hand, pale and hesitant, reached across the table toward Tom's arm.

Tom's wineglass tipped over. The deep red liquid surged across the white cloth, blooming like a grotesque flower. A dropped fork, its tines gleaming crimson in the spill, lay like a bloody instrument reaching for me. Something in the sheer absurdity of it—the anger, the spilled wine, the silent accusation—snapped. A laugh bubbled up inside me, a hysterical, uncontrollable sound that burst from my chest.

At the same instant, a sob tore from Mom. Her face crumpled, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Oh, please," she gasped. "I just wanted a nice lunch."

That was our cue. Tom and I both fell silent, the remnants of our argument hanging in the air. A wave of guilt washed over me as I watched Mom's shoulders shake. Tom, looking equally uncomfortable, cleared his throat. We both started to murmur apologies, offering her our napkins and trying to soothe her distress.

"Mom, I'm sorry," I said, my laughter now feeling like a cruel echo. Tom mumbled something similar, his usual gruffness softened.

Just as Mom started to regain a semblance of composure, a knock echoed through the hallway. The front door opened. Victor's long-term partner and lawyer—and, coincidentally, Eli's dad—stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

The will reading was about to begin.

Daniel Kane hadn't aged a day in the ten years since I last saw him. He was still lean, dressed in those too-tight dark blue jeans and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark skin was smooth, and his wiry hair was gelled to the side. The thin, rectangular glasses perched on his nose made him look like a serial killer.

"Rhiannon," he nodded politely, and I nodded back, at a loss for words.

"Alright, everyone," Mr. Kane said, gathering our attention. "Victor's will is located in his office. If you'd follow me."

We all rose, a silent procession moving through the mansion. As we ascended the grand staircase, Beverly and I fell slightly behind. She paused near a huge arched window that overlooked the manicured gardens. The natural light streaming in caught the delicate fabric of her turtleneck, and my breath caught. Just beneath the collar, despite the high neckline, I saw it—a dark bruise forming on her throat, displaying the blues and reds of a dying universe.

"Beverly," I said softly, my eyes fixed on the faint discoloration peeking above her collar. "What happened there? Are you alright?"

Beverly's hand instinctively went to her neck, her fingers brushing the fabric. She offered a quick, tight smile. "Oh, this? Nothing, really. You know how it is in pregnancy. I just bruise so easily these days. I'm sure I just bumped into something."

I watched her, unconvinced. My mind raced. Tom. Dammit. He always had a temper, a violent streak. I remembered the slammed doors and the shouting matches growing up. Could he have done this? The thought sent a cold wave through me. Beverly seemed so fragile, so sweet. But I didn't say anything aloud; it wasn't my place.

"We'd better catch up with the others." Her gaze drifted away from me as she caressed her belly. Then, she absently trailed her fingernails along the edge of the wide windowsill. They snag on something hidden behind the massive, leafy fronds of a potted monstera plant. Beverly reached in, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, and pulled out a dusty, multicolored jawbreaker. She stared at it, a small, almost childlike wonder in her eyes.

"Oh," she murmured, turning it over in her palm.

Oh, wow. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. That jawbreaker was still there. It had been Cindy's favorite hiding spot for sweets whenever we had pajama parties when we were maybe ten years old. How could it still be there, tucked away behind that monstrous plant after all this time? A strange wave of nostalgia, sharp and unexpected, washed over me.

"You found that there?" I asked, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping me. "That used to be our secret stash. Cindy's and mine."

Noticing the puzzled look in her eyes, I clarified: "Cindy was my best friend. I still remember the first summer her mother let her stay over at my place—the first time she ever slept at the Carmichael mansion. Cindy and I watched Mulan twice because we didn't want to go to sleep, our mouths stained white from the jawbreakers."

"It's a lovely story."

"Coming, Bev?" Tom's voice sailed down the banister, sounding softer and more tender when he was addressing his wife.

"We'll be right up!"

Stepping into my father's office felt like stepping back into a cage. The heavy oak door creaked shut behind me, sealing us in with the ghosts of his authority. The air was impregnated with the scent of old leather and expensive cologne, a smell that had always made my stomach clench. This room was his domain, his command center. And for me, it had often been a place of reprimands. I could still feel the sting of his words echoing in the silence, and the disappointment in his eyes when he caught me playing hide-and-seek in here as a child. I guessed my laughter had been deemed an unacceptable disruption to his important work. The vast desk, now cleared for Mr. Kane's papers, still loomed large—a symbol of the power Victor Carmichael wielded, a power that even in death seemed to cast a long shadow over me.

We all seated ourselves around a smaller, more formal table that Mr. Kane had cleared, the heavy silence punctuated only by the rustle of legal papers in his hands. Daniel sat at the head of the table, the dim light from the desk lamp glinting off his unsettling glasses. His gelled hair caught the light, making him look even more severe. He cleared his throat, the sound amplified in the tense atmosphere, and began to read in a measured, theatrical tone.

"The Last Will and Testament of Victor Alistair Carmichael..." Mr. Kane's voice droned on for a few formalities before he reached the heart of the matter.

Daniel continued, his eyes now fixed on Tom, who sat stiffly, his jaw tight. "All of my shares in Carmichael & Co. Upstate Real Estate Agency, representing the controlling interest in the company, will be transferred to my son, Thomas Carmichael. In their entirety."

Suddenly, Daniel's professional facade cracked for just a moment. A flush crept up his neck and spread across his face, turning it a mottled red. His eyes, sharp and calculating behind those glasses, widened with a flicker of surprise—no, wait, it looked more like shock and perhaps even anger flashing within them. Daniel Kane's jaw tightened, and his hands, which had been holding the will so steadily, clenched. Yet just as quickly as it had appeared, the redness began to recede, his expression smoothing back into a mask of polite neutrality. He said nothing, simply adjusting his glasses and continuing to read as if nothing untoward had occurred.

A muscle twitched in Tom's cheek. He didn't say anything, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, a barely perceptible relaxing of his shoulders. The company was his inheritance. The power Victor had wielded was now his.

Next, Daniel's gaze softened slightly as it landed on Lorraine, who sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes wide, dreamy, and a little lost. "My various bank accounts, held at Wells Fargo Bank and Bank of America in Gaffney, shall be divided equally among my wife, Lorraine Carmichael, my daughter, Rhiannon Carmichael, and my son, Thomas Carmichael."

Finally, he looked up, his gaze sweeping over each of us in turn, lingering for a moment on me. He scanned the document, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he took in an unexpected clause. His head snapped up from the paper, his eyes locking onto me with an intensity that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope. It wasn't just surprise; it was a look of utter disbelief, as if I had materialized out of thin air. The man blatantly stared at me, his composure momentarily shattered, like he had just seen a raven fly out of a snowdrift—something so incongruous, so utterly out of place, that it defied logic. Daniel Kane's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before he schooled his features back into a semblance of professional detachment and continued reading.

"I hereby bequeath my primary residence, located at 1401 Twin Bridge Road, Gaffney, South Carolina, to... my daughter." He gulped. "Rhiannon Carmichael."

A pin could have dropped and shattered the silence.

I had heard and processed maybe about twenty percent of what Daniel Kane had said since we sat down in Victor's makeshift office—this leather-and-mahogany prison. But this was unmissable. My heart speed-bagged in my chest.

"W-what?" My voice came out dry and raspy. My nails found a fraying spot on the side of my jeans, picking at it to self-soothe.

I focused on my old bike, which I could see through the open window, and I pictured Cindy, happy and carefree. I remembered my bestie with her scraped-up elbows and legs from falling off that bike, her pink mouth smelling of fake strawberries from the Lip Smacker lip balm she carried in her pocket everywhere so her sister couldn't steal it. The image momentarily calmed me down as I stared at the rest of my family.

Tom's bottom lip came unstuck, falling open in shock. Mom's fingers drummed the table like dancing spiders. Beverly sat straight as a meerkat. No one moved—we were human marble chess pieces pointing at each other, standing frozen in our own squares of the black-and-white tile.