Chapter 1: Silver Spoons and Sharp Edges

Everyone in Hamilton, Ohio, says I was born lucky—silver spoon and all. But they don’t know what it’s like choking on all that shine.

People here never let me forget my place. The Connelly name is stamped on the courthouse downtown, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my birth announcement got read into the Congressional Record. Dad’s a federal judge at the top of the food chain, Mom’s old-money East Coast, and my brothers are both working D.C.—one strutting the Hill, the other playing diplomat at State. My three older sisters married into families with more connections than a phonebook. Since preschool, I wore Saks dresses and Parisian shoes, and ate filet mignon off bone china. Even my toys could’ve paid someone’s mortgage for a decade.

But folks only see the shine, like my life’s wrapped up in gold foil. They don’t get it: the higher you climb, the farther you have to fall. Behind these bay windows and velvet curtains, there’s scheming in every corner; between crystal glasses and silver forks, you might catch a flicker of real danger. One slip, and you’re out. Even when our neighbors wave from their manicured lawns or the mayor comes over to slap Dad’s back at Sunday brunch, I know every word is weighed, every gesture measured. This isn’t just family—it’s legacy. And legacies cut deep.