At twenty-four, my stepmother tried to tr*de me to her wealthy business partner to save her company — I escaped through a bathroom window, barefoot and bl*eding, into a storm.
The black car I threw myself in front of belonged to a stranger more powerful than the family I was running from — and by morning, my stepmother would learn he already owned her debts.
PART 1
The first time my stepmother tried to s*ll me, she served champagne and called it a family dinner.
By the time I understood the price of saving her company was supposed to be me, the doors were already locked.
I should have known something was wrong when I saw the table.
Wendy never used the good china for the two of us.
That night it was out — my mother’s china, the pattern with the gold rim — set for three, with place cards, in the formal dining room we hadn’t opened since the fun*ral.
I was twenty-four, seated across from Luca Vance, a sixty-one-year-old investor whose cologne arrived at the table before his handshake did.
My stepmother, Wendy Sterling, sat beside him like she was presenting a quarterly report.
The dining room of the Briarwood estate — my father’s estate — glowed with candles she’d had the staff light, and rain was just beginning to tick against the tall windows.
I remember thinking the candles were strange.
I remember thinking a lot of small things were strange, right up until the moment they arranged themselves into one large thing with my name on it.
“Luca is prepared to cover our bridge financing,” she said. “In return, you’ll make the arrangement respectable.”
“What arrangement?” I asked.
