“You’re playing with fire, Celeste. And I’m the one who’s going to get burned when the board sees these.”

The porcelain clink of a coffee cup hitting a saucer was the only warning before Emelia slammed the morning edition of The New York Post onto the marble breakfast table. The headline was a jagged, sensationalist smear in bold ink: ALDRIDGE’S ERRANT HEIRESS: FROM ST. TROPEZ TO THE SLUMS. The photo was grainy, clearly taken from a long lens hidden near the St. Jude’s entrance, but there was no mistaking the sharp, expensive bob of my hair or the way I was crouched in the dirt, laughing as a toddler pulled...