She kissed my forehead like a woman already choosing what to wear to my funeral. She was certain I was buried somewhere inside a coma, too far gone to hear her. She had no idea I could make out every word — or that the housekeeper everyone in that penthouse treated like furniture was about to hand me the one piece of evidence that would bring her whole plan down on her head.
PART 1
Six nights earlier, my car had gone off the West Side Highway doing seventy.
Someone had cut the brake line.
My driver, Elias Marsh, had been with me eleven years. He didn’t survive the crash. I woke up in the back of an ambulance with three broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and blood filling my mouth every time I tried to breathe — and one thought burning louder than the pain.
Whoever did this knew exactly where
