“You told me everything belonged to you,” she whispered to him.

Christopher let out a dry, bitter laugh. “And you told me that you loved me.”

She didn’t answer, because they both knew it was never love. It was hunger—for power, money, status, and borrowed applause.

I left them there in the hallway.

That night, I didn’t go back to the house in Beverly Hills to sleep. I went back only briefly, to collect three vital things: my father’s photos, my grandmother’s jewelry, and the tiny hospital bracelet Luke wore when he was born.

Mrs. Higgins was crying in the kitchen, and she hugged me tightly, as if saying goodbye to her own daughter. Brenda was in the living room, on her knees, pleading with Christopher, but he no longer even looked at her.