Part 1
The man everyone was waiting to bury moved his hand and curled his fingers around my baby’s blanket.
I froze beside the bed, convinced my mind was playing tricks on me.
For three hours, I had been pacing the cramped service quarters of the massive Bel Air estate, cradling my nine-month-old son, Leo. He had a fever from teething, and nothing could soothe him. I’d walked him, hummed softly, and tried feeding him, but he just kept crying.
Desperate for a quiet space, I had slipped into Grant Sterling’s master suite.
The doctors said he only had days left.
Grant was forty-six years old. He had built an immense transportation and logistics empire from scratch, but for two months, he had been bedridden—unable to speak or move a single muscle. His nephew, Julian, was already discussing funeral arrangements with the casual tone most people use to reserve a dinner table.