Alyssa's days are a gilded blur of charity luncheons and silent galleries, her laughter a polished currency in rooms that feel increasingly like exhibits. The weight of her diamond solitaire is a constant, cold reminder of the transaction, a beacon that draws admirers but repels genuine warmth. In the quiet hours, she finds herself scrolling through old photographs, not of lavish vacations, but of a cramped college apartment, where the air was thick with shared dreams and microwave popcorn, and the only currency was time—time that felt endlessly, wonderfully theirs. She misses conversations that don't feel like negotiations, touch that isn't a performance, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of being truly, messily known. The mansion has many rooms, but none for the person she thought she would become.