On my wedding day, Daniel and I sat in a downtown bistro eating burgers in our wedding clothes. My twelve-dollar dress and our carefully budgeted wine were all we could afford. My parents had refused to attend because I had turned down Connor, a millionaire and my father’s boss, to marry Daniel, my broke best friend. They believed I had thrown away a comfortable future for a man who could barely afford a proper wedding.

I tried to ignore their judgment, reminding myself that love mattered more than money. Then Daniel pulled a folded legal letter from his late father’s old suit jacket. “Sav, there’s something you don’t know about me.” The first line was addressed to me, written by my grandmother, who had died three years earlier. My hands trembled as I read the words “house,” “savings account,” and “maintenance funds.” My parents had always told me Grandma died with nothing, but the letter revealed she had left me her house and money to maintain it when I turned twenty-five. Suddenly, everything I believed about my family began to fall apart.