She looked up at me, her eyes burning with a terrifying, magnificent wrath. “Are you ready to lose your company, your wealth, and your pristine reputation tonight, Rowan? Because that’s what it will cost to get our daughter back.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Burn it all.”
The grand ballroom of the Hermitage Hotel smelled of roasted duck, expensive champagne, and the toxic perfume of power. Three hundred of Nashville’s elite, tech investors, and politicians sat beneath crystal chandeliers.
I walked through the double doors at 8:45 PM, my tuxedo dripping with rain. Tessa spotted me instantly. She wore a backless emerald gown, diamonds—my mother’s diamonds—resting against her collarbone. She glided over, her smile flawless.
“Where have you been?” she hissed through gritted teeth, maintaining her beaming facade for the cameras. “Daddy is about to make the toast. Get up there.”
I let her lead me to the raised dais. Grant Whitmore stood at the podium, looking slightly gaunt but projecting the aura of a king.
