The vice president of Oakridge Management was a man named Richard Vance.

Richard Vance was Grant Bellamy’s regular golf partner.

Grant hadn’t just walked away and forgotten us. He’d reached into my life and cut my lifeline, manufacturing the exact financial instability he was now using as a weapon in court.

He was building an architecture of ruin, and I was trapped inside it. Sitting in that courtroom, I knew the worst was yet to come.

Before the gavel even struck, Carroway had made a point of mocking Nolan’s clothing in the hallway. “Clearance-rack specials,” he’d muttered to Grant with a smirk.

If he’d known the true cost of that navy-blue shirt, his smirk might have faltered. Or, being the man he was, he simply wouldn’t have cared.