The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

My smile of vindication faded the moment the heavy oak door to Vance's office creaked open. The air in the room shifted from triumphant to tense. A young woman, barely twenty-five, stood there shaking, clutching a designer purse like a shield. I recognized her from the background of Preston’s paparazzi photos—his assistant, usually invisible, now centre stage.

"Come in, Chloe," Vance said, his voice dropping the shark-like edge for a soothing baritone. "You're safe here."

She took a seat, her eyes darting to me. I saw the fear in them—the same fear I felt every time I looked at my bank balance. "He fired me," she whispered. "Because I wouldn't lie about the speed."

Vance leaned forward, sliding a box of tissues across the mahogany. "If you testify, we can discuss witness protection measures. Sterling has reach, but the law has a longer arm if you help us secure punitive damages."

Chloe sobbed, a harsh sound in the quiet room. "It wasn't just the speed," she choked out. "He... he was on something. Pills. He made me flush them down the toilet at the scene before the cops arrived. That's why the drug test legal window was missed."

I gripped the arms of my chair. Narcotics. That explained the manic laughter when he hit my car. The cruelty.

"He was high," I whispered, the realization making me nauseous.

"High as a kite," Chloe confirmed, wiping her mascara-stained eyes. "And I have the text messages where he told me to hide the stash."

Vance’s eyes glittered. The shark smelled blood.