As chairman of Forrester Holdings, CW traveled for a living and preferred that his much-younger wife accompanied him. Rachel, who’d quit her job at CW’s bank and relied on his support, was in no position to object. I stayed behind, though not with a nanny or housekeeper. Instead, my parents left me with the Quinns for days at a stretch. Which is why, when CW had a stroke—alone for once, in a Brussels hotel—I was already living upstairs. CW’s death sent Rachel spiraling, but Lawrence stepped in. “We’ll take her,” he offered. “Let me do this for you, Rachel. Let me be a father to Cassie, the kind of father CW would’ve wanted her to have.”

Everyone was pleased. CW could rest in peace. Rachel was unburdened. Eleanor finally had a girl after years of trying. Lawrence could repay his mentor. But two years later, tragedy struck again. Rachel died in a car accident—alone, in Florida, at the wheel—leaving me with no close blood family except CW’s older sister and her awful daughter Clarey. When I turn twenty-five, I’ll inherit CW’s fortune. And yet, despite all the stories of wealthy orphans with calculating relatives, no one offered to raise me. No one except Lawrence and Eleanor Quinn.

People are skeptical of the rich. We are selfish and self-absorbed. We are oblivious to poverty, to the needs of others. We are greedy. We are corrupt. We eat our own. But this isn’t all we are. The Quinns are obscenely wealthy. They have everything money can buy. But when presented with a problem that wasn’t theirs to solve, they didn’t turn their backs, nor did they take the easy way out and write a check. Instead, they opened the door and invited me in—not to visit, but to stay. So, maybe Eleanor can seem cold, and Lawrence tries too hard. Maybe they’re not always kind, or good, to each other; maybe they’re not good at all. But Lawrence and Eleanor were good to me. For this, and for everything else they’ve given me, I was, I am, beyond grateful. To a sad, lonely orphan girl, the Quinns were, the Quinns are, are a gift from God.

* * *

At midnight, I’m studying at my desk when Eleanor enters my room. She’s so quiet, I don’t realize she’s behind me until I see her shadow in the mirror.

Startled, I let out a yelp. “Oh my God, Eleanor.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She shakes her head. “I can’t sleep, so I’m wandering around, trying to find a place to put myself.”

“That’s the problem with mansions,” I say. “Too many damn rooms.”