Ben’s POV.
The Morgan Gallery was too bright, too cheerful. Jennifer’s laughter, a sound I’d rarely heard, echoed off the polished concrete floors like a discordant bell. She was glowing, floating on a cloud of expensive silk and newfound happiness. A "remarkable man," she’d said. A man who gave her things, who took her to places with no menus.
It made me sick.
Not because I disliked her. The opposite, actually. Over the past year, playing the part of her loyal, gruff protector, I’d started to like Jennifer Morgan. I saw the steel beneath the grief, the sharp mind slowly re-emerging from the trauma. It was a complication I hadn't accounted for.
But sentiment doesn't pay the kind of money Stanley Morgan was depositing into my offshore account.
I waited until the gallery closed, until t
