Begging at My Empty Grave

Three months after Mercer Group filed for Chapter 11, my mother slipped something into my Pinot Noir and had a private car deliver me straight to Dominic Hayes’s penthouse.

My head was spinning, my knees buckling before I even cleared the foyer. When Dominic caught me by the elbow, the look in his dark eyes wasn’t triumph—it was sheer, curdled disgust.

"Nora," he said, his jaw tightening until the tendons in his neck looked ready to snap. His eyes were shot through with crimson, vibrating with a venom he could barely contain. "I told you I’d clear your family’s balance sheet.