THE DEVIL'S WIFE
The message was brief: “Ms. Sinclair, your work has come to my attention. I have a proposition that will benefit you greatly. Dinner. Friday. 8 PM. Dalton Tower, 54th Floor. Come alone. — D. Javier.”
Drake Javier.
The name hit me instantly. Everyone in New York knew who he was a billionaire: ruthless, untouchable, the kind of man financial magazines glorified and people whispered about like he was something less than human.
He built an empire from nothing and guarded his privacy like it was his greatest weapon. So why reach out to me? I was a photographer barely scraping by. My work had appeared in a few small publications, sure, but I was hardly well-known. I had no connections, no status.
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