I let myself in with my own key.

The living room I had paid for was packed with more than thirty members of the Vance family — champagne glasses in every hand, loud laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, all of them arranged in adoring orbit around Fiona, who sat enthroned in the center of the room in a velvet armchair, receiving their homage like a queen on her feast day.

Julian stood near the dining table, holding a microphone, mid-toast.

He saw me come in, and his eyes narrowed in immediate, reflexive annoyance — and then his gaze traveled down.

To the navy suit that had cost more than his monthly allowance.

To the four-inch heels.