The top VIP suite at Nance Group's private hospital.
When I opened my eyes, it was raining outside.
Grant Nance was slumped in the chair by the bed, dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin, still clutching a half-eaten piece of bread.
"You're awake?"
His voice was hoarse, but he softened it instinctively, as if afraid to shatter something fragile.
I stared at him, dazed.
Memories flooded back to when I was fifteen.
I was kidn*pped. He charged in alone, took three stab wounds to the back, and still smiled while holding me, saying,
"Don't be afraid."
On my eighteenth birthday, he stood outside the Nances' mansion all night just to give me a pearl necklace he'd strung by hand.
But I threw the necklace into the pool right in front of him.
"Grant Nance, you're just my dad's
