Then, during my father’s lavish seventieth birthday party, everything shattered. He raised his glass, smiled for the cameras, then struck me across the face so hard the room froze. “You’re a disgrace to the family name, Harper,” he roared. “I’m cutting you from the will.”

The guests gasped, phones lifted, flashes exploded. Some laughed, some filmed, and I, humiliated and trembling, walked out into the freezing Chicago night. The next morning, someone knocked on my door. Three lawyers. And they weren’t from my father.