From Prison Cell To Billionaire's Target

lars. She sat in the back row, her knees pressed

lass and steel. It was the city she grew up in, but it felt lik

the driver's seat played

ces a hostile takeover of..

screen. He wore a custom Tom Ford suit. His jaw was sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled. He looked powerful, unt

e. She just felt a heavy, cold exhaustion. Hate required energy, and she

hts, and the deafening roar of traffic hit her like a physical blow. She stumb

ful cramp. She hadn't eaten sinc

he cooler, doing the math in her head. She couldn't afford them. She walked

nch near an alleyway, taking t

ss man stepped up, his eyes locked on her food.

went dead, locking onto his with the feral, violent intensity she had learned in Ce

someone who had nothing left to lose. He

ld Dorothea would have cried and hand

ded a place to sleep, but a cheap motel woul

oking at the windows of

presentable appearance. She looked down

. Her degree had likely been scrubbed fr

gging slightly, the dull ache in her

reet in the Meatpacking District. A

elvet

her tracks. Her breath ca

ed. The place where her life ended. It was a sick,

ck wall, shivering violently, the hollow ache of starvation twisting her empty stomach. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories, but Jada's voice echoed in her scarred mind. Live, Dottie. Live like a cockroach. Don't let them win. Hell's entrance

willing to do heavy lifting. No backg

ea

the bottom of the barrel. But

ng up blood in the infirmar

her palms. She walked up to the he

ale beer and industrial floor wax. A tired-lo

ou want?"

e cleaner job,"