The letter in my father’s hand was written in my own handwriting. My stepmother found it tucked in her appointment book and presented it to two hundred gala guests: If Vivienne tries to claim the trust, remind her what happened to her mother. I am twenty-three. My mother’s four hundred million passes to me at twenty-five. The board meets next week. Rosalind doesn’t make scenes—she curates them. But I spent three years learning every loop and slant of her perfect cursive, because I knew someday she would try to erase me. I didn’t write that letter. I know exactly how it was made. When I demand they search the study, Margaux’s lie collapses and my notebooks surface. Then I hold up a wax-sealed letter that can destroy Rosalind publicly. I give her one choice: withdraw from the trust and leave the estate, or lose everything in front of the world.