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"She doesn't deserve it! She abandoned this family years ago!" My sister Vanessa's voice carried across the spacious sunroom of our grandmother's Victorian mansion, where just minutes ago I had been peacefully sipping tea, trying to process my grief. I froze in the doorway, my hand still on the ornate brass doorknob, as I watched Vanessa slam her palm against the antique mahogany table where our grandmother's lawyer sat calmly reviewing documents. "Grandma Eleanor was confused," Vanessa continued, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. "She couldn't possibly have left Harmony House to Claire! This has been my home for the past five years. I'm the one who took care of her!" I stepped into the room, my heart pounding against my ribs. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been in Ecuador, documenting indigenous healing practices for my doctoral dissertation. Now I stood in my childhood sanctuary, the home where I'd learned to play piano on rainy afternoons while Grandma Eleanor told stories of her travels across Europe as a young musician. The home I'd fled after the family scandal that had torn us apart a decade ago. The home that, according to the stunned expressions around the room, Grandma had apparently left to me. "Claire," my mother whispered, half-rising from her seat. She looked older, frailer than the last time I'd seen her. Her eyes darted nervously between me and Vanessa. "You came." "Of course I came," I replied, setting down my worn leather backpack. "She was my grandmother too." Vanessa whirled to face me, her emerald eyes—so like our mother's—flashing with fury. "Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns. Just in time to claim her prize."