He Defends My Brother’s Killer
For five years, I had shared a bed with my brother’s killer and my own executioner.
I looked at Mike—no, Michael—and for the first time, I didn't see the billionaire tycoon. I saw the eighteen-year-old boy who had watched his world get shattered by a truck and then buried by a conspiracy.
The weight of his seven-year exile, the sheer agony of watching the girl he loved be groomed by a monster while he was branded a "violent street fighter," crushed my heart.