Paul adjusted the pink ruffled jacket over his shoulders and crossed his legs on the velvet sofa, enjoying the luxurious softness of the fabric against his skin. The delicate lace of his white stockings brushed his thighs whenever he shifted position, while the oversized pink curls framing his blonde hair gave him the appearance of someone who had stepped straight out of a vintage fashion magazine. He glanced down at his feet, perfectly positioned in a pair of high-heeled shoes decorated with delicate tulle bows. Then he smiled. If someone had told him a year ago that he would one day spend his afternoons dressed like a glamorous socialite, waiting for a lawyer to inspect his living arrangements, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he was, nearly halfway through the strangest eighteen months of his life, and the irony was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. It had all started with Aunt Rita. Seven months earlier, the formidable old woman had passed away, leaving behind...
