My narcissistic mother shoved my pregnant wife in a courthouse and laughed—but she had no idea the ruthless attorney behind me was about to change everything.
Eleanor Vance sat at the far end of the long mahogany table. She was immaculate. Not a single hair displaced. She wore a tailored cream dress, a string of genuine pearls at her collarbone. The fake Chanel from the assault had been exchanged for the full armor of old money.
She looked up as I entered. For a brief moment I saw it — the familiar continue reading …
