Chapter 2

The interrogation room was cold and gray. I sat there for hours, the metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists. I told them the truth, over and over.

"My wife is lying. Her cousin, Wesley Clark, was driving the car. He doesn't have a license. They framed me."

The two DPD detectives just looked at me with bored, cynical eyes.

"Mr. Scott," the older one, Detective Miller, said, "your wife gave a very compelling statement. She was hysterical. Said you confessed everything to her. Your 'cousin-in-law' backs it up. Says you tried to bribe him. We've got two witnesses against you. What do you have?"

"The truth," I said, my voice hoarse.

"The truth is, a rich kid in a fancy car hits someone and runs. We see it all the time. The only thing different here is you're trying to pin it on the poor relative. It's not a good look, son."

They took my mugshot. The flash was blinding. I saw the glint of my Patek Philippe watch in the reflection of the camera lens. A detail I knew would not be missed. They took my fingerprints, my jacket, my shoes. I was processed like any other criminal.

As I sat in the holding cell, the reality of it all started to sink in. Gabby. The woman I met in college. She was a scholarship student from a dusty little town, smart and ambitious, but always struggling. I fell for her hard. I paid for her tuition, her books, her apartment. I wanted her to have everything, to never worry about money again. I thought she loved me.

I remembered when Wesley first showed up. Gabby said he was down on his luck, just needed a place to stay for a bit while he found a job in the city. I was hesitant, but she'd been so persuasive. "He's my blood, Jayden. We have to help."

I saw the way they'd whisper together in the kitchen, the way he'd put his arm around her a little too comfortably. I'd told myself I was being paranoid, jealous. I was the laid-back oil heir, the guy who didn't sweat the small stuff. I had trusted her. I had been a blind fool.

The cell door clanged open. A guard stood there. "Scott. You're making bail."

Standing in the hallway was my father, Nathaniel Scott. He wasn't a tall man, but he had an aura of power that made him seem to fill any room. Beside him was Mr. Hughes, our family's fixer, a man who had been with my father for thirty years, his face a permanent mask of calm efficiency.

My father didn't say a word. He just looked at me, his eyes like chips of ice. There was no sympathy in them, only a cold, burning rage. He had hired the best legal team in Texas before he even left his penthouse. Bail was posted. I was free, for now.

As Mr. Hughes led me towards the exit, my father finally spoke, his voice a low growl. "You have brought shame on this family, Jayden. You have made us a target."

"I didn't do it, Dad," I said, my voice cracking. "Gabby and Wesley, they set me up."

"It doesn't matter," he snapped. "Perception is reality. And right now, the whole city perceives you as a coward who left a man to die on the side of the road."

He was right. The moment I stepped out of the police station, it was chaos. A wall of cameras and microphones shoved into my face. Local news crews, reporters shouting questions.

"Mr. Scott, why did you flee the scene?"

"Is it true you tried to bribe your cousin?"

"Do you have any remorse for the victim?"

Worse than the reporters were the protestors. A small, angry crowd had already gathered. They held up signs. "JAIL THE RICH BRAT." "NO BAIL FOR KILLERS." Someone threw a half-empty soda cup that splattered against my chest.

Mr. Hughes, a human shield, pushed me through the mob towards a black SUV. The flashes were relentless. I felt like an animal in a cage. As we pulled away, I saw it on the giant screen in a nearby plaza. My mugshot. My tired, defeated face, the absurdly expensive watch on my wrist. The headline screamed: "OIL HEIR'S HIT-AND-RUN: JAYDEN SCOTT ARRESTED AFTER WIFE'S 911 CALL."

The public shaming had begun. And my own wife had lit the match.