The first thing that caught my eye was how the fading sunlight reflected off the glass of my apartment window.

It had been one of those exhausting, soul-draining days when the city felt like a relentless machine grinding me down and tossing me aside. My laptop still sat open on the kitchen counter, an unfinished email glowing faintly on the screen, while I stood by the window with my phone pressed to my ear. Outside, the Boston skyline carved sharp silhouettes against a sky washed in orange and pink. In that brief stillness, the one voice I least wanted to hear cut through the silence with cold satisfaction.

“You’re banned from the family beach house forever.”

The words came from Diana Crawford, my stepmother, snapping through the speaker with a sharp, almost gleeful cruelty that made my grip on the phone tighten. I watched my reflection in the glass—dark hair twisted into a loose, messy bun, sweater slipping off one shoulder—while the distant hum of traffic floated up from the street below.

“What?” I asked slowly.