Rain streaked the tall windows of Sloane Pierce’s penthouse dining room.

Inside, the air smelled of expensive wax and roasted duck.

I stood in the doorway, my wet trench coat dripping onto the polished herringbone floor.

Nobody had invited me, but the front door had been left unlatched.

Evan sat at the head of the mahogany table.

To his right was Sloane, wearing a silk dress the color of oysters.

To his left sat my mother-in-law, Vivian, her fingers draped in heavy gold rings.

They all froze when they saw me.

In the center of the table stood a dusty bottle with a torn black label.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was the 1961 Château Latour.

The neck still bore the silver wax seal from my mother’s private collection.

It was the bottle reserved for her memorial reception, the one we never opened because the estate had been frozen.

It was supposed to be locked in the estate cellar under court order.

“Claire,” Evan said, his voice dropping an octave. “What are you doing here?”

He set his crystal glass down, but his hand trembled slightly.

The red liquid sloshed against the rim.

“You’re trespassing, dear,” Vivian said, taking a slow sip.

She smiled, her teeth stained faint purple.

“This is a private dinner,” Sloane said. “Please leave before I call security.”

I walked closer to the table, my boots squeaking on the wood.

I reached out and touched the neck of the bottle.

The silver wax was cracked and peeling, torn away by a hurried hand.

“That bottle belongs to my mother’s estate,” I said.

“It was sealed by the probate court last Tuesday, Evan.”

Evan scoffed and leaned back.

“It’s just wine, Claire. Your mother would have wanted us to enjoy it.”

“You broke the court seal,” I said.

“You have no proof of that,” Sloane said, swirling her glass. “Cole Brantley sold this to us legally.”

She lied smoothly, but her collarbone flushed red.

She looked at Evan for reassurance, but Evan was staring at the doorway behind me.

“Cole is a licensed merchant,” Evan added, his voice regaining some of its usual oily confidence.