The ambient roar of the industrial kitchen was a symphony Harper Quinn had once conducted with her eyes closed. Tonight, the clatter of stainless steel, the violent hiss of searing wagyu, and the frantic shouts of the line cooks were muted on her left side, a permanent ghost of her time in prison. B

The ballroom buzzed with the intoxicating energy of unchecked wealth and anticipation. Hundreds of crystal glasses clinked as the waiters flawlessly executed the synchronized service of the first course.

Seated at the center of the head table, Harper stared down at the delicate porcelain plate in

For three agonizing seconds, the grand ballroom of the Mercer Hospitality Summit was a tomb. The audio of Silas’s cold, detached voice—*Now, we wait for her to break*—bounced off the crystal chandeliers and sank into the velvet-lined walls. The dashcam footage of the black SUV crushing Liam Quinn’s