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car, baby.”
He didn’t even know who had actually been paying his father-in-law’s salary all these years. He didn’t know that every brick in that Lake Forest mansion, every Italian marble tile, every hand-carved baluster on that sweeping staircase had been purchased with dividends from my empire. He didn’t know because I’d kept it that way deliberately,
wanting him to earn respect on his own merit, not ride on my coattails.
But Preston Galloway had mistaken my silence for absence. My invisibility for impotence.
That was his first mistake.
It would also be his last.
Chicago looks deceptively calm from the height of the 25th floor. Gray rooftops spread out like a patchwork quilt stitched together by narrow c