My husband's father, Warren Harrington, was in a catastrophic car accident. He was barely clinging to life. On his deathbed, terrified that a power vacuum after his death would trigger a stock collapse, he dictated his will in front of a city's worth of media and lawyers. Two sons. Whoever reached his bedside first—proving they had the fastest decisiveness and the iron grip to keep the boardroom wolves at bay—would seize sole control of a thirty-billion-dollar empire. My husband's half-brother, Beckett, was overseas. My husband, the one who knew the conglomerate inside and out, was a ten-minute drive from Mount Sinai. It should have been a foregone conclusion. I called until my phone nearly melted. My husband shut his off. His soulmate was having a bad day. She wanted him beside her at the top of the Ferris wheel, watching a private fireworks display. Just for her. In my last life, I lost my mind. I took bodyguards and stormed into Six Flags. I dragged him, physically, to Warren's bedside. He dropped to his knees. Warren took his last breath. He inherited Harrington Group without a hitch. But his soulmate got left alone in the high-up cold. She caught a fever. She sobbed and cursed him out, said he didn't care about her, said she was done. It wrecked him. Once his power was absolute, he had me bound to a chunk of stone and tossed into the Atlantic. "A control freak like you, you only see transactions. All you ever do is ruin things. Ella got a fever because of you. The inheritance was mine sooner or later. You meddled for nothing." I opened my eyes. I was back at the moment the lawyer was frantically pushing me to make the call. On Instagram, he had just posted: *Even if the world ends, I'm watching these fireworks with my girl.* I tapped the like button without a second thought. Then I calmly opened my chat with Beckett. "Beckett. Want to make a deal?" *** "Skyler! What are you waiting for? Call Kip!" The ......
