The document in the folder was the one thing Diane had never imagined existed. It was my mother’s original letter of intent, filed with her attorney the year she died, naming me not just as the beneficiary of the twenty-three million, but as the sole rightful heir to the entire family trust in the event that the funds were ever concealed from me. My mother had anticipated this. Dying, weak, but clear-eyed, she had known exactly what kind of woman my father would marry and exactly what would happen to her daughter. She had built a legal trap and left it sleeping for twenty-three years, and Diane’s single line into that microphone had sprung it.

I let the intercom ring three times before I answered. Diane’s voice came through first, stripped of its ballroom shimmer, high and frantic. “Vivian, please, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, let us come up, we’re family.” Family. The word landed exactly as it had at my mother’s smaller table, at the cropped photographs, at the introductions that placed me in a previous chapter of my father’s life. I held the letter of intent in my hand and looked at the three of them on my camera feed, the tuxedo, the streaked mascara, the useless phone. Then I pressed the button, unlocked the door, and decided that after twenty-three years of being escorted out, I would finally let them come to me, on my ground, on my terms.