The Heart of Hope gala should've been safe territory. Eleanor Prescott's pet project—where Manhattan's richest assholes bought indulgences one diamond bracelet at a time.
Instead, it turned into my funeral.
Dr. Marcus Weinstein called that morning. "Blair, we need to talk. Someone's been spreading stories about you and the foundation investments."
My stomach dropped. "What kind of stories?"
"The kind that makes board members nervous. Anonymous tips about conflicts of interest. Allegations you've been steering donations toward companies where you have hidden stakes."
Perfect. Absolutely f*****g perfect. Use charity kids as ammunition—who could fight back against that without looking like a monster?
"Marcus, you know this is bullshit."
"I know. But perception is reality in our world.
