hidden behind the polished exterior of our Boston brownstone. I, Gabrielle Fuller, once a promising graphic designer in New York, had becom
his champion, the man who saw a son in him and paved his path to success. His dying wish
me... you and Andr
smell of antiseptic clinging to everything. I clutched my phone, my thumb hovering over Andr
again. And again. Dozens of times, the calls went straight to voicemail, the automated voice a cold, impe
ave been the twentieth
el
nce. I recognized it instantly. Jennifer Chavez. His ex-girlfriend fro
ew? I need to speak to
smissive. "He's preparing for a pr
hanging between Boston and London. He wasn't just bu
of quiet resentment, the hollow promise I just made-i
ng a divorce," I said
I hun
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