“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister said with a sneer, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light as she adjusted the Valdderee heels on her feet. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but couldn’t you at least have made an effort?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. I had designed this “cheap” dress myself. I owned the label on her shoes. I owned the boutique we were standing in. And one hour earlier, I had personally approved the cancellation of her modeling contract. Then my brother’s bank made the news…

Blake stared at me like I’d grown claws.

“Why would you help at all?” he asked, suspicion thick in his voice. “After everything?”

I thought of my mother teaching me to hem skirts in the back of the boutique, telling me elegance wasn’t about what you wore—it was about how you treated people when you didn’t have to be kind.

“Because Mom would want me to,” I said.

I watched them flinch at her name.

“Because despite everything, you’re still my family. And because I can afford to be generous in ways you never could.”

The dig landed.

They flinched collectively, like I’d struck a nerve they’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

“There are conditions,” I added.

“Complete honesty with authorities. No more lies about your situations. No using my name or connection for any purpose.”

I let that settle, then continued.

“And you’ll each write a letter. A real letter. Acknowledging how you treated me and apologizing—not to me. To Mom’s memory.”

“You want us to apologize to a dead woman?” Dad’s pride flared one last time, thin and desperate.

“I want you to acknowledge who you’ve been,” I said. “Maybe that’ll help you become better people. Or maybe not. Either way, those are my terms.”

My phone buzzed.

Time for the Tokyo call.