He would paint Ethan as a tragic, lost cause, a ghost occupying a bed in the west wing.

I needed to make sure they saw Ethan not as a corpse, but as a victim.

When I reached the door to Ethan’s room, I paused.

The hallway was quiet, but I could hear the faint murmur of voices from the grand staircase at the far end of the wing.

I pressed my back against the wall, shadows swallowing my figure.

Jason was standing near the landing, speaking to a man in a dark grey suit.

The man was holding a leather briefcase, his face obscured by the low light of the chandelier.

“The signatures are verified,” the man in the suit said, his voice carrying up the stairwell. “Once the bride signs her portion, the transfer is legally binding.”

“She will sign,” Jason said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “She has no choice. Her father’s debts are bought and paid for by my associates.”

“And if she tries to make a scene?” the man asked.