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

Hunger is a sharp motivator. It overrides pride. With my bank account frozen and my body screaming for relief, I had one option left. I walked into the "Gold & Loan" pawn shop on 4th Street, clutching the velvet box I had sworn never to open.

Inside lay Mark’s watch. He had worn it on our wedding day. It was the only piece of him I had left.

"Need an emergency cash loan," I mumbled, sliding the watch across the scratched glass counter.

The broker screwed a loupe into his eye. He turned the watch over, humming. "Vintage. Good condition."

"It's worth two thousand," I said, my voice trembling.

He pulled the loupe out and smirked. "Market's down. Pawn shop value is tricky. Best I can do is three hundred."

"Three hundred?" I choked. "That won't even cover my pain management prescription."

"Take it or leave it, lady. You look like you need the cash."

I took it. I sold my husband’s memory for a handful of bills that felt dirty in my palm. Tears streamed down my face as I stumbled out of the shop, the bell chiming cheerfully behind me.

I wiped my eyes and looked up. Above the street, a massive digital billboard illuminated the gray sky. It was Preston Sterling’s face, retouched to perfection, smiling like a savior.

The caption read: "MAN OF THE YEAR: Visionary. Leader. Philanthropist."

He was everywhere. He owned the streets, the banks, the law. And as I stared at his giant, mocking smile, I realized he wasn't done taking from me. He wouldn't stop until I had absolutely nothing left to lose.