“My dad owns every law firm in this province,” the lawyer’s daughter laughed after ramming her brand-new Tesla into my old Subaru

one hand braced against spilled wine, the other half-curled as if my body hadn’t yet decided whether to rise or strike. The Bordeaux seeped through my jacket in a slow, expensive stain. It smelled rich and old and wasted, exactly like everything else in that room. “Oops,” Bradley Sterling said. He didn’t sound surprised. He didn’t sound apologetic.continue reading …