The bailiff announced our case in the same dull tone someone might use to read through a shopping list—no pause for sorrow, no weight for loss, no reverence for the man who had di:ed—and my sister was already on her feet before he had even finished speaking. She didn’t stand like a granddaughter honoring our grandfather.

Victoria wore a fitted cream coat over black, the kind of understated luxury that draws attention without appearing to try. It wasn’t the look of mourning.

It was branding.

Her hair was sleek and perfectly arranged, every strand controlled, as if she couldn’t allow even one thing to fall out of place in a room where power mattered. Her eyes were dry.

No redness, no puffiness, no sign she had cried at all. And when she looked at me, there was no grief there—only cold assessment, as if she had already calculated my value in dollars.Our parents sat behind her in the second row, positioned like they belonged with her rather than with me.

My mother held her hands neatly in her lap with almost ceremonial solemnity, like she was sitting in a pew.

My father faced forward with his jaw set in that familiar way he had whenever he’d made up his mind and didn’t intend to be challenged. It was his business expression, not his funeral expression. Not his father expression.

Not even his family expression.

The judge adjusted his glasses in one slow, practiced motion, like a man who had watched too many families turn a death into a fight over signatures and titles.

His face looked worn, but his eyes missed nothing.

Victoria’s attorney rose with the effortless confidence of someone who had billed more hours than most people had lived full days. His suit was immaculate, his voice soft, his watch expensive enough to catch the fluorescent light whenever he moved.

He stepped toward counsel table carrying only a thin stack of documents and slid them forward so smoothly it felt like he was unsheathing a blade.