And right in the middle of that hell, a woman came out of the kitchen.
She wasn’t wearing a dress. She wasn’t wearing diamonds.
Only the black uniform of the service. Light blonde hair loose over the shoulders. Steady green eyes, without trembling.
Claire Sullivan.
Twenty-seven years old. Widow. Single mother of a six-year-old girl with a congenital heart condition. A woman who once slept in her car with her daughter, who begged on her knees in a hospital for a miracle… and who on a rainy night almost let it all end.
She walked through the garden, passing stares, scorn, poisoned whispers… and her own fear.
Until he stopped in front of the most powerful man in New York.
And he knelt down.
The air turned to glass.
The 350 held their breath.
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