Emma used to joke that I was “allergic to fancy.” She didn’t mean it as an insult. She meant it as proof. Proof that I wasn’t like her father—Theodore Harrison, a man who could turn a dinner conversation into a power play without raising his voice. Proof that I wasn’t chasing her last name, her family’s connections, or the kind of life that came with a gate, a long driveway, and a staff that learned to smile without meaning it. If Emma knew what I was hiding, she might not have laughed so easily

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