“You smell of dirt and mediocrity,” he told her as he divorced her for being a gardener’s daughter—never realizing that her father actually owned the company he worked for.
PART 1: THE COLLISION AND THE ABYSS The champagne in the Baccarat crystal flute was a 1998 vintage, yet to Elena Sterling it tasted like battery acid. She stood beside the floor-to-ceiling window of her Tribeca penthouse, city lights sparkling below like distant, indifferent diamonds. It was their fifth anniversary. “You’re not listening, El,” Marcus …