It looked fabulous, as it would. I was responsible for every inch of fabric, every stick of furniture, down to the ribbed silver or mirrored Kleenex box holders.

It was like my office. Classic elegance, except more refined.

I did not hesitate to congratulate myself on wringing a miracle, because even with its extreme beauty, it was also welcoming and comfortable.

I loved it.

But it had to go.

It had to go because, along with all I’d mentioned, there were also four bedrooms, a casual family room, a game room, a study, a “mom’s room” (that looked like a place set up to make crafts or wrap packages, as everyone knew it was mom’s job to be craftsy and wrap presents), a laundry room that was as big as a bedroom, a larder that was as big as most full baths and a master suite that the Queen of England would feel comfortable in.

This didn’t count the mini-me-mansion guest house with its own sitting room, small kitchen, bedroom and bath at the back of the property.

All of this (save the guest house, of course) was in a u-shape flanking an in-ground, heated swimming pool with a massive mosaic-tiled deck. This situated on a huge lot situated in Governor’s Park, in other words, smack in the middle of the city proper of Denver.

It cost millions of dollars.

It was too much for me.

When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I’d wanted nothing to do with it.

But when I moved out of my father’s home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two- to three-bedroom condominiums.

A Shade lived like a Shade.

Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.

But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather’s need to perpetuate a massive, grisly, scheming, brutal Fuck You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn’t care either way.

Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.

Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.

Now, it wasn’t only too big for me—a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion—we couldn’t afford it.

Dad’s rambling manse would never go. He’d die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he’d let anyone take it from him.

And Georgia was turning a semi-blind eye to the money situation, aware of it but certain she could do something to turn it around while breaking her neck to do just that.