Chapter 1

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, carried by the mailman who only came up our mountain road twice a week.

It wasn't for Elara, it was for me, Sarah Miller, though most folks here just called me Sadie.

The envelope was thick, expensive paper, with the "Miller's Markets" logo embossed in gold. My stomach twisted.

I hadn't seen that logo up close in over ten years, not since they sent me away.

I was eight, maybe nine, when Dad decided I was bad luck.

Little things at first, a fender bender, a supplier backing out, then a small fire at a new store.

He said it started when I was born.

Mom cried, but Dad' s voice was louder.

So, I came to live with Great-Aunt Iris, who was already old then, and when she passed, Elara Vance took me in.

Elara was the heart of our little Ozark community, full of old wisdom and a quiet way about her.

She never said I had a "gift," not in so many words.

She' d just smile when the garden grew fuller near where I weeded, or when a sick calf I sat with got better quicker.

"Some folks are just a light, Sadie," she'd say, "and things grow better in the sunshine."

I opened the letter. It was an invitation, no, a summons.

Ethan' s 21st birthday gala. My younger brother.

The favored one, the heir.

"Your father expects your attendance. It is an obligation," the stiffly typed note inside read, unsigned.

Elara watched me read it, her eyes knowing.

"You gotta go, child?" she asked, her voice soft like moss.

I nodded, feeling a cold dread. "Looks like it."

Before I left, a few days later, Elara pressed a small, hand-stitched pouch into my hand.

Inside, a smooth river stone, cool to the touch.

"Hold onto this," she said, her gaze steady. "When you feel the tide turn against you, remember where your true strength lies."

I clutched it, the only piece of this mountain I could take with me.

The bus ride to the city was long. The Miller mansion was bigger than I remembered, an ostentatious palace of glass and stone.

My father, Richard Miller, met me at the door. His eyes, cold as a winter river, swept over my simple dress, my worn boots.

"Sarah," he said, his voice clipped. "You made it."

There was no warmth, no welcome. Just a critical once-over.

Ethan lounged in the doorway of a massive living room, a smirk on his face.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in from the sticks," he drawled.

His friends, all slick hair and expensive clothes, snickered behind him.

I felt the familiar chill of being the outsider, the unwanted one.

This wasn't a family reunion, it was a duty, a performance.

And I was the unwelcome guest.