Rebekkah's POV.
"The champagne needs to be vintage Krug, not that trash the caterer suggested, and tell the florist I want white orchids...thousands of them. I want this to look like a funeral for your girlhood and a birth for our empire." Michael didn’t even look up from his iPad as he spoke. He leaned back in the plush leather seat of the Maybach, his thumb scrolling through a digital guest list like he was playing a game of Tetris with people’s lives.
I sat across from him, my hands tucked under my thighs to hide the shaking. We were driving away from the tower, away from the flashes and the screaming reporters, but the air in the car felt even thinner than it had on the stage.
"Did you hear me, Bekk?" Michael asked. He finally looked at me, his eyes sharp and cold, scanning my face
