Chapter 8

Friday came. Brooke's five-million-dollar deadline. I didn't pay her. I didn't call her. Instead, at 9 p.m., the gate guard called the house. "Ma'am, it's Mr. Hayes. He's on foot. He's... ma'am, he's kneeling in the driveway." It had been pouring for an hour. I walked down the long gravel drive with an umbrella. Sebastian followed ten steps behind, silent, hands in his coat pockets. Grant knelt on the wet stones just outside the iron gates. No coat. His white shirt was soaked through. His...