She heard Bailey’s stomping footsteps echo up the stairs and tried to push the sliver of guilt aside. Bailey was too old to be treated like a child. Why did everyone cater to her? If Devon hadn’t taken control, this house would still be sitting on the market, rotting away like all their potential money. Pris had her rich husband, and Bailey still relied on their father’s generous dole outs, but Dev made sure to make her own way.

Living in New York was damn expensive. Sure, being a tenured professor at NYU was a respectable career, with a decent salary. But there was still so much she craved—like scoring that elusive dean position and gaining a spot on the board. Being respected by her bosses, colleagues, and students on a higher level. Dev had a voracious appetite for success and sensed the victory she craved was close.

Dev refocused, finished the top drawer, and started on the next. Most of the stuff was throwaway remnants of cast-off makeup, holiday cards, empty notebooks, broken picture frames, and a mishmash of collectibles that had meant something to Mom once. The calming scent of lavender drifted in the air, soothing some of the jagged edges of a grief she’d not been willing to steep herself in. Not yet. When she got back to her place, she’d take some time to cry and mourn.

Alone.

“Nice going,” Pris drawled, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Crossing her long legs with a natural grace that spoke of all those days she used to dance, her oldest sister gave a deep sigh, clasping her hands on her knees. Dev took a moment to study the large, glittering rock on her finger, her French-manicured nails without a chip. Even at forty, she held a youthful beauty, from her swanlike neck and long blond hair to her wide powder-blue eyes that still shaded an onlooker from her secrets. Pris was the peacemaker but also the most secretive. Dev wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d learned her sibling danced in the fairy world when everyone went to sleep and had never breathed a word to anyone.

Both her sisters had inherited Mom’s looks—light hair, blue eyes, fair skin. Dev resembled her father with his dark hair and hazel eyes. He was a handsome man, always had been, but somehow the features she’d inherited didn’t work on a female as well. Dev always felt a bit too stocky in the hips and bust, a bit awkward in her gait, and a bit dull with her coloring. It was hard growing up with the golden sisters and the constant comments about how Dev looked so different. Sometimes, she’d had to grit her teeth to keep from slugging those nice old ladies who gave her a slightly sympathetic look.