James Morrison's POV

I pour myself three fingers of bourbon and smile at the television screen. Brett Graham looks like a broken man defending his relationship with that worthless little nobody.

"Perfect timing," I mutter, reaching for my phone.

The press conference is a gift. Graham Industries' stock is already dropping, and the board members are circling like vultures. I've been waiting two years for this moment—two years since that pathetic little slut Riley Plia destroyed my life.

My firm ...