clinics. The scholarships. Even the gala’s headline pledge.
All backed by my trust.
All controlled by my signature.
And no one in that ballroom knew.
Not Celeste.
Not the guests.
Not even Adrian.
Only one person did: Etta Roan, my attorney, a seventy-one-year-old woman with silver braids, sharp suits, and the terrifying patience of someone who had spent four continue reading …
