Juliette’s smile vanished, her eyes darting between Mark and the paper in Thomas’s hand.

Mark took another step toward us, his chest rising and falling quickly under his velvet jacket.

“You cannot do this, Thomas,” Mark said, his voice shaking.

“The trust is legally mine.”

“It was yours,” Thomas said, “under very specific conditions.”

I looked at the red wax seal lying in my lap.

It had been stamped with my mother’s family crest.

My fingers were cold, but for the first time in months, my chest felt light.

Mark reached out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared at the document.

“Let me see that,” he demanded, his voice cracking.

Thomas did not hand the paper to him.

He held it firmly in his gloved hand, just out of Mark’s reach.

A low murmur rippled through the rows of gilded chairs behind us.

The local patrons and family friends shifted, their whispers dry like dead leaves in the grand room.

“This is a private matter,” Patricia hissed, her face flushed beneath her heavy makeup.

She looked back at the crowd, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.