Chapter 1

The air in the grand dining room of the Jenkins Charleston estate was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of polite Southern conversation. My father, beaming, tapped his crystal glass for attention.

"Friends, family,"he announced, his voice resonating with pride, "my wife and I have a special announcement regarding our darling Sarah and her upcoming wedding to Chad."

A hush fell. I smiled, feeling Chad's hand squeeze mine under the antique mahogany table.

"As a wedding gift,"Dad continued, "we are thrilled to bestow upon Sarah the historic Tradd Street property!"

Gasps and murmurs of admiration rippled through the room. It was an incredibly generous gift, a beautifully preserved eighteenth-century house in the heart of the city, a jewel in the Jenkins real estate crown.

Across the table, I saw my step-brother, Billy Ray, offer a tight, forced smile. His wife, Daisy-Mae Lynn, however, did not bother to hide her reaction. Her perfectly painted face, a mask of Southern belle charm moments before, twisted. Her eyes, usually sparkling with a pageant queen's practiced vivacity, narrowed into slits fixed on me.

The applause was polite but strained by the sudden tension Daisy-Mae radiated.

Later that evening, during the dessert course, the whispers started. Daisy-Mae had apparently confronted me in the powder room, her voice loud enough for several guests to overhear. I hadn't been there; I was with my mother discussing floral arrangements. But the story spread like wildfire: Daisy-Mae, accusing me of flaunting my wealth, of always getting everything, of looking down on her working-class roots.

The party ended on a sour note.

Two days later, the call came. Billy Ray, his voice choked with a performance of grief.

"Sarah, it's Daisy-Mae. There's been... an accident."

He explained, his words carefully chosen, that Daisy-Mae had been found unresponsive. Prescription pills, a bottle of bourbon. A suicide attempt, he sobbed. She was in a coma.

My parents rushed to offer support. Mr. Jenkins, ever the patriarch, took Billy Ray under his wing, assuring him the family would spare no expense for Daisy-Mae's care. My mother fretted over Billy Ray's distress, her kind heart aching for him. No one questioned the narrative. No one remembered Daisy-Mae's public outburst or her simmering jealousy.

A week later, Billy Ray appeared at our door. He looked drawn, but there was a strange light in his eyes. In his arms, he cradled a small, fluffy white Bichon Frise, its pink bow perfectly tied.

"Sarah,"he said, his voice still thick with false sorrow, "I know you're grieving for Daisy-Mae, for our family. I found this little thing... she was abandoned. I thought... I thought she might bring you some comfort. An emotional support animal. For your engagement."

He placed the dog in my arms. It was undeniably cute, a prize-winning specimen by the look of it.

"Her name,"Billy Ray added, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, "is Angel."

My mother cooed, "Oh, Billy Ray, how thoughtful of you. Sarah, dear, isn't she precious?"

I looked at the dog, then at Billy Ray. A cold knot formed in my stomach. He, who managed the family's rundown strip malls and never showed interest in pets, suddenly "rescued"a perfectly groomed, expensive-looking dog and gifted it to me. It felt wrong, a discordant note in the symphony of our family's supposed concern. But I smiled, thanked him, and let my mother fuss over Angel. The core conflict had been ignited, and Billy Ray, with my parents' unknowing blessing, had just handed me the Trojan horse.