I felt the cold weight of the wax seal in my palm.

The brass crest pressed into my skin, leaving a sharp impression.

I looked at my husband, the man who had spent the last year telling me I was unstable.

The man who had told me my mother was senile when she wrote her final wishes.

“It is no misunderstanding, Patricia,” I said.

My voice sounded clearer than it had in months.

Mark turned his head slowly to look at me.

His eyes were dark with anger, but beneath it, I saw the first signs of panic.

“Claire,” he said, his tone softening into that familiar, quiet warmth.

“Talk to him. This is our home. This is our life.”

“This is my mother’s home,” I said.

“And it was never your life.”

Juliette stepped back, away from Mark.

Her gaze went from the grand crystal chandelier above us to the polished parquet floor.

She looked at the gold-leaf molding on the walls.

She looked at the antique grand piano Mark had just been playing.

“Mark,” Juliette said, her voice sharper now.