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

Fear has a taste. It tastes like copper and bile. I sat on my floor, the lawsuit trembling in my hand, and decided I couldn't just die quietly. I pulled out my cracked phone and logged into social media.

I typed everything. The accident. The mockery. The photo he took. I tagged local news, I tagged the police. I posted it with a picture of my cast and the lawsuit. Please help me, I wrote. He almost killed me and now he's suing me.

Within ten minutes, the notifications exploded. But not with support.

"Scammer!" one comment read. "Trying to get rich off a billionaire? pathetic." "I saw the dashcam, you backed into him!" (A lie. There was no dashcam footage released.)

Preston’s bot army had arrived. They flooded my inbox with threats, burying my plea for a harassment lawyer under a mountain of hate. My phone buzzed incessantly, vibrating against my fractured wrist.

I looked out the window, hoping for fresh air, and froze. A black sedan was parked directly across the street. The window was rolled down, and a man was watching my building through binoculars.

I ducked below the sill, heart hammering. I needed a restraining order and home security systems, things I couldn't afford.

CRASH.

Glass sprayed across my living room floor. I screamed, covering my head. A brick had smashed through the front window, landing on my worn rug. Wrapped around it was a piece of paper.

I crawled toward it, shaking. The note was handwritten in elegant script:

"Be quiet or lose everything."