Your mother's hand was a vise on your wrist, her heels clicking a sharp staccato against the marble floor. Your sister, Elara, walked ahead, chin high, her silk gown sweeping the pristine tiles like she already owned them.

Inside, the room was bathed in warm amber light. Crystal chandeliers. Deep leather chairs. A fire crackling in a hearth the size of your bedroom.

And standing by the window, silhouetted against the evening sky, was a man.

He turned.