Richard Carvil believed in power.
Not in luck. Not in fate. Only in power—the kind that could be bought, stolen, or crushed beneath his heel. He doesn't mind how he gets the power, but he wants it.
Right now, his power was being threatened, and the world was beginning to take him as a joke.
He sat in his private study, as the city lights sprawled beneath him through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A tumbler of whiskey sat untouched on the desk as he thought about his whole life. Beside it, a folder lay open, its contents spilling out like a damning confession. Financial records. Offshore accounts. Evidence that should have remained buried.
Someone had been digging. And worse still, the person who had been had been sending him bits of what they had found to keep him on edge.
His grip tightened on the leather armrest of his chair. He knew who.
Aurora.
His dear, foolish step daughter thought she could challenge him. That she could return from the dead and take what was his.
