William Croft paced his office in the Conservatory, looking out at the city. He was vibrating with the high of the engagement, convinced that marrying Sophie would finally “cure” his grief.
His assistant buzzed in. “Mr. Ricci is here.”
Dante Ricci, a slick music mogul in a shark-skin suit, sauntered in. He didn’t offer a hand; he offered a check.
“Fifty million for the catalog,” Dante said, placing the check on William’s desk. “Victoria’s music is gathering dust, William. Let my label manage the rights. We can release the demos. Keep her memory alive.”
“Her memory isn’t for sale,” William said, his voice hard. “And neither are her songs. Get out.”
Dante picked up the check, unfazed. “You’re sitting on a goldmine, Croft. And you’re too emotional to manage it.”
Dante left the office, pulling out his phone as he entered the elevator. He dialed his head of security.
“He won’t sell,” Dante said, his voice low. “If she’s dead, the rights go to the estate, and I can strong-arm the grandmother. But rumors are flying about a woman in Italy. Find out if Victoria Vance is actually in that grave. I need proof.”
The elevator doors closed, sealing the conspiracy.