My stepmother told me I wasn’t welcome at “their” luxury resort—so I opened my laptop and quietly revoked their entire access.

Then one afternoon, my father asked to see me.

He came alone.

No Beatrice. No daughters. No performance.

He looked older than he had in the lobby — as though six weeks of consequences had reached the parts of him that vanity could never quite protect.

“I read Arthur’s final letter,” he said quietly.

I knew exactly which one he meant. My grandfather had continue reading …