an impeccably cut, dark charcoal pantsuit crafted by a bespoke Savile Row tailor, without ornament except antique platinum cufflinks. Yet to Harper, obsessed with visible labels, no conspicuous branding meant I must be poor.
“Did you rent that oversized suit from a community theater company, Blair?” Harper mocked, her voice dripping with poison. “Or did you dig it out of the lost-and-found bin of whatever highway motel lobby you’re currently vacuuming?”
“I came to wish Dad a happy sixty-fifth birthday,” I replied calmly, ignoring my sister entirely and keeping my