Cole Scott Ward

My husband's father, Warren Harrington, was in a catastrophic car accident. He was barely clinging to life. On his deathbed, terrified that a power vacuum after his death would trigger a stock collapse, he dictated his will in front of a city's worth of media and lawyers. Two sons. Whoever reached his bedside first—proving they had the fastest decisiveness and the iron grip to keep the boardroom wolves at bay—would seize sole control of a thirty-billion-dollar empire. My husband's half-brother, Beckett, was overseas. My husband, the one who knew the conglomerate inside and out, was a ten-minute drive from Mount Sinai. It should have been a foregone conclusion. I called until my phone nearly melted. My husband shut his off. His soulmate was having a bad day. She wanted him beside her at the top of the Ferris wheel, watching a private fireworks display. Just for her. In my last life, I lost my mind. I took bodyguards and stormed into Six Flags. I dragged him, p......