Ambrose Ward sat in the dimly lit interrogation room of the Lakeport Properties headquarters, watching Winston Grant through the haze of a cooling cup of tea. Winston was a mess—a literal, physical wreck. He spent the better part of the last five minutes sighing, his shoulders slumped as if the very air in the room had gained the weight of lead. His eyes, though surrounded by the darkening bruises of the earlier scuffle, were wet with a genuine, agonizing concern for Gwendolyn Preston.
It was a strange sight. According to the venomous shouts Grant Archer had hurled across the conference table, Winston should have hated Chester Preston. If the rumors were true—that Winston was a cuckold who had traded his wife’s dignity for a Director-grade seat—he should have been dancing on Chester’s gra
