Ten years ago, my own family had thrown me out as though I were someone unworthy of their name.

The grand mahogany doors of the Grand Ballroom loomed ahead of us, carved with intricate gold-leaf patterns that mirrored the opulence of the celebration within. Muffled sounds of classical string music and polite, aristocratic laughter drifted out through the slight gap between the panels. Inside, over three hundred of the city's elite—politicians, CEOs, high-society socialites, and greedy relatives—were mingling, eagerly awaiting the entrance of the birthday boy, Arthur Keating.

Eleanor frantically smoothed down her Chanel suit, her hands shaking so badly she could barely tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Desperation clawed at her features. She looked at me not as a mother looks at a daughter, but as a cornered animal looking at a predator that had already trapped it in a snare.

"Blair," Eleanor hissed under her breath, stepping close enough that I could smell her expensive, suffocating French perfume. "Listen to me very carefully. Whatever petty grievance you think you have from ten years ago, you cannot ruin this night. Your father spent six months organizing this event to secure the municipal redevelopment contract. If you cause a scene here, if you humiliate us in front of Arthur Keating and the city council—"

"Arthur Keating?" I cut her off, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the same Arthur Keating who embezzled funds from the municipal transit project back in ninety-eight and used your father as a scapegoat to cover his tracks? Oh, don't look so shocked, Mother. Just because you chose to bury family secrets under layers of designer rugs doesn't mean the dirt has vanished."

Harper, who had managed to regain a small shred of her composure, glared at me with pure venom. "You're bluffing! You've always been a compulsive liar, Blair! You probably scraped together enough money to rent a cheap designer suit and pay this security guard to play along with your pathetic delusions! When Dad sees you, he'll have security throw you out into the street where you belong—for real this time!"

I didn't bother arguing with her. Arguing with fools was a waste of limited oxygen. Instead, I gave Marcus a subtle nod.

"Open the doors," I commanded.

Marcus stepped forward, placing his heavy white-gloved hands against the massive mahogany panels. With a synchronized, effortless push, the doors swung wide open, flooding the hallway with warm, golden light and the rich aroma of imported caviar and vintage champagne.

The sudden movement at the entrance immediately drew the attention of the nearest guests. Conversations sputtered and died out in ripples as heads turned toward the doorway.

Standing at the threshold was Arthur Keating himself—my father. He was dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, a silver-haired patriarch with an arrogant, self-satisfied smile plastered across his face. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, gesturing animatedly to a group of local politicians. But as his eyes drifted toward the entrance and landed on Eleanor, Harper, and then—finally—on me, the glass slipped from his fingers.

*Crash.*

The crystal flute shattered against the imported hardwood floor, spraying champagne and shards of glass across the shoes of a city councilman. The entire ballroom plunged into an absolute, suffocating silence.

"Arthur?" one of the councilmen asked, frowning in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

My father didn't answer. His face had gone from a healthy, arrogant flush to a terrifying, deathly pallor. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He stared at me as if he were looking a literal ghost rising from an unmarked grave.

Ten years ago, he had watched without a single word of protest as Eleanor threw my bags onto the street. He had signed the legal documents disowning me, erasing my name from the family registry with the stroke of a pen, confident that a penniless nineteen-year-old girl would starve, vanish, or fade into obscurity within a matter of months.