Manhattan glittered beneath a winter sun that reflected off glass towers and polished black cars. Scarlett stood in front of the tall windows of her penthouse apartment, the skyline stretching endlessly before her. Somewhere down there, her face was smiling from digital billboards in Times Square. Her latest single had held the number one spot for three consecutive weeks. Invitations from fashion houses and late night shows crowded her schedule. Stylists, publicists, assistants, managers. Her life was a carefully orchestrated symphony of success.
And yet, peace had always felt temporary.
Her phone buzzed against the marble counter.
It was not her manager. Not her stylist. Not even Julian.
It was the front desk.
"Miss Hale," the concierge said cautiously, "there are four individuals in the lobby insisting they are your family."
Scarlett's stomach dropped.
For a moment she could not breathe.
Family.
She had not heard that word spoken with sincerity in years.
