A chandelier glimmered overhead, just bright enough to remind me that I didn’t belong. Luxury here was measured, displayed, and envied.

Inside the ballroom, the hum of conversation and applause filled the air. Wine glasses clinked. A concierge handed me a generic name tag: “Rebecca Cole.” No title. No distinction. Just my name floating among “Dr.” this and “CEO” that.

Of course, my sister Chloe had overseen the arrangements.

Under my sleeve, I wore my West Point ring, heavy gold pressing against my wrist. No one noticed. That was exactly how I planned it—for now.

The Ballroom

The main ballroom resembled a stage set for impact. Long tables draped in