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Five years ago, I'd walked into Sterling's office with a fake name and a real grudge, planning to destroy everything he'd built with his family's blood money.
Now I am standing on fifty acres of prime Manhattan real estate, watching bulldozers prepare the ground for something that would have made my revenge-obsessed younger self physically ill.
The Eleanor Prescott Children's Hospital groundbreaking was everything I'd once despised about corporate philanthropy—a carefully orchestrated media event designed to generate positive press while rich people congratulated themselves for spending money they'd never miss. Reporters clustered around temporary stages, politicians practiced their sound bites, and society photographers captured every angle of Manhattan's power elite pretending to ca
