The Top of the Cap Table

Not because I had made anyone suffer — the Whitcombes’ suffering was a byproduct, not the point — but because the record finally read correctly.

I was not the barista who got lucky with a rich boy.

I was the person who held the note on the whole illusion, and now everyone on that deck knew it, including me.

That was the clean part.

Not the revenge.

The truth.

Chapter 18 — Larkspur Street

“Where to, Madam President?” Kira asked over the hum of the engines, opening her tablet to the afternoon’s schedule.