“Dad’s inheritance is for my wedding,” my sister screamed from behind. I felt hands on my back, then falling. Fifteen concrete steps. My head hit every third one. the spine specialist marked “ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ-related vertebrae fracture.” The emergency scan went to administration. “Hospital CEO admitted with ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ɪɴᴊᴜʀɪᴇs.”

For the past eight months Olivia had spoken about her wedding constantly, describing it with the same seriousness other people reserved for life saving surgery or national elections. She wanted the historic Ridgewood Manor Estate ballroom, imported flowers flown in from Italy, a celebrity photographer, and a band that usually played for wealthy families in Manhattan.

Jameson cleared his throat and looked down again at the page. “Your father actually left a note regarding the wedding discussion you had with him.”

Olivia’s eyes flashed with irritation. “And what exactly did he say?”

“He expressed concern about the cost you described,” Jameson replied calmly.

Olivia laughed softly but there was no humor in it. “Dad wanted me to have a beautiful wedding.”

“Dad wanted a lot of things,” I said quietly, and the moment the words left my mouth I wished I had stayed silent.

Olivia’s head snapped toward me instantly. “Do not start.”

Jameson continued speaking with the patience of someone who had watched families fall apart over money for thirty years. “The will divides the estate equally between both daughters and does not authorize any alternative distribution based on personal expenses.”