With my fingertips resting against the icy floor-to-ceiling glass of my sixty-fifth-floor penthouse office, I watched violet twilight engulf the streets below. The Opeline rose beneath my handcrafted Italian loafers, its dark tower descending toward the harbor waters. The immense black tower was an architectural landmark. Every inch of its imported limestone exterior, every hand-cut crystal suspended in the atrium, and every thread of eight-hundred-count Egyptian cotton in its four hundred luxury suites was indisputably mine. StudyChemistry Yet a sleek smartphone vibrated on the broad surface of my black marble desk. The glowing message reminded me that, to my own relatives, I remained the unwanted stray they had thrown into the winter cold ten years earlier.

Keating and Sutter as undisclosed majority owners of a multibillion-dollar property empire.

Their supposed collateral?

The building beneath my feet.

They reserved the Skyline dining room through Preston’s shell corporation. They intended to stage an extravagant deception, using my skilled employees, my Michelin-starred kitchen, and my panoramic views to persuade Arthur Keating to approve a $50 million unsecured bridge loan.

They were exploiting my  hotel to cover their financial losses, completely oblivious to the fact that I held the titanium title deed to the bedrock beneath their feet.

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