The sunrise over Queens didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a confession.
The light hit the grease-stained windows of the Silver Star Diner, turning the steam from the coffee urns into a golden haze. Outside, the world was screaming. News helicopters were still circling the smoldering remains of the Sterling Heights basement, and my face—alongside Reid's—was plastered on every digital billboard from Times Square to Tokyo.
The Waitress Who Broke the Bank.
The Billionaire Who Burned it All.
I sat in the blue booth, my fingers tracing the simple gold band on my left hand. It felt heavier than the five-carat diamond ever had. It felt real.
