afe. The salt air was a clean break from the suffocating opulence of the Davenports. I was painting shelves, sanding floors, trying to build a new life, brick by painstaking brick.

ual dismissal of real precautions. A wave of anger, then a profound sadness, washed over me. I decided to keep the baby. This child, my child, would be the family I never had. He would be loved, cherished, wanted.

built a life, a stable, peaceful existence. Then, one crisp autumn afternoon, a sleek black car, out of place in our rustic town, pulled up outside. A woman emerged, impeccably dressed in a

reclusive tech billionaire who had recently passed away. My mother, Alistair's estranged daughter from a brief, youthful marriage, had died when I was a baby, leaving me

"Other Sterlings" – were already circling, contesting the will, trying to seize control of the company. Victoria, Alistair's much younger widow and his most trusted business partner, needed me. My claim, as Alistair's direct blood descendant, was

ed. It felt like stepping into a dream, or a nightmare. Within days, Leo and I were swept away from our quiet Maine life to the Sterling family's main est

out business, finance, corporate law, and the treacherous art of navigating the world of the ultra-wealthy. I was a surprisingly quick study. The resourcefulness and resi

t Carol with her condescending tone. I faced them in boardrooms, in tense legal meetings, learning to hold my own, to project an

onship with Alistair had been complex, starting as a business alliance, but evolving into a deep, loyal partnership. He had trusted her implicitly. A