Part 2 — The Preparation

The kitchen smelled of rosemary, garlic, and quiet resolve.

By eight in the morning, the marble counters were covered in luxury ingredients — a massive beef tenderloin on a silver platter, crates of organic vegetables, artisanal cheeses, and three cases of vintage champagne Marcus had personally selected to impress the senior partners of his private-equity firm.

My right arm throbbed inside its fiberglass shell, a heavy anchor strapped to my ribs. Every heartbeat drove a spike of pain from my wrist to my shoulder.

Painkillers were out of the question; I needed my mind sharp and completely unclouded.

I couldn’t chop. I couldn’t scrub. But I still had a working left hand, a phone, and a very clear plan.

Instead of hiding in the bedroom and weeping, I spent the morning making calls.