My name is Lily Cadence. I am thirty-five years old, born into one of Charleston’s oldest, wealthiest, and most publicly admired families, the kind that treats legacy like a religion and silver like something that ought to gleam even in a storm. In our house, there was always sweet tea in a cut-glass pitcher, Sinatra…
My name is Calla Duval, and I was twelve the night my parents left me to die on the shoulder of U.S. Route 199 under a sky so cold it looked scraped clean with a knife. We were the kind of family that rehearsed smiles like Sunday hymns. Clean on the outside, hollow in the…
My name is Avery Lockwood. I was thirty-five years old the Thanksgiving my sister smiled across polished walnut, slid a silver box through candlelight, and said, almost lazily, “Maybe this will finally explain why you’re another man’s mistake in this family.” The room went still in the particular way wealthy American families go still, which…
My name is Jolin Morrow. I’m thirty-four years old, and I was born into a family of executives, board members, and people who believed they owned every room they entered before their shoes touched the floor. My father collected titles the way other men collected watches. My brother, Nolan, inherited authority so naturally it looked…
My name is Olivia Harrow. I’m thirty-two years old, the youngest daughter in a family that treats legacy like currency and silence like loyalty. In the Harrow house, truth is negotiable, but image is not. I learned early how to play quiet, play small, play useful. Be the smart one. Be the reliable one. Be…
My name is Vivian Rook. I’m thirty-four years old, and I was born into a family that never quite figured out what to do with me. The Rooks were old Charleston money—pearls, yachts, legacy degrees, and scandals polished so smooth they passed for manners. My brother Landon had been raised for chandeliers and handshakes, the…
My name is Lena Calder. I’m thirty-five years old, the youngest in a family that never let me forget the order of things. My sister Vivian married into old money. My brother built his whole life around inheritance. I built mine in silence, one code base, one patent, one buried identity at a time. While…
My name is Isidora Fontaine, but everyone in Charleston who had ever attended a museum gala, a preservation dinner, or one of my family’s impossible Christmas parties called me Izzy, like shortening me might make me easier to dismiss. I was thirty-two years old, the youngest woman in a Southern dynasty that believed appearances were…
My name is Isidora Fontaine, but everyone in Charleston who had ever attended a museum gala, a preservation dinner, or one of my family’s impossible Christmas parties called me Izzy, like shortening me might make me easier to dismiss. I was thirty-two years old, the youngest woman in a Southern dynasty that believed appearances were…
The lock gave way with a dull mechanical click, too smooth for a house this old. My fingers lingered on the handle. One breath. Two. Then I pushed the door open. The same scent hit me first. Mold under paint. Lemon polish trying to fight dust. My shoes touched the warped hardwood with a muffled…
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