The black town car slid through Manhattan, a silent predator in a river of light and noise. Franklin stared out the window, but he wasn't seeing the city. The legal file felt like a lead weight on the seat beside him.
His mind drifted back, a door he usually kept locked tight swinging open.
---
He remembered the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. A different life. A different body. He'd been someone else then, a office worker in a grey cubicle farm, dying in a meaningless car accident on his way home from a job he hated. The last thing he saw was the grill of a truck.
Then, nothing. And then… everything.
Light. A pressure, then a scream. His own. He was a baby, swaddled in linen that cost more than his old apartment's rent. He was Franklin Saint. His new father, a giant of industry with a laugh that shook rooms, beamed down at him. His mother, elegant and sharp-witted, kissed his forehead.
It was a second chance. A golden ticket. He had all his old memories, his old mind, now housed in a new, privileged body. He vowed to enjoy it. To live the life he'd never had.
Then, three years later, Cissy was born. Cecilia Saint. With her big eyes and a laugh that could cut through any of his teenage brooding. She was the only person who ever saw through him, who ever looked at him and didn't just see the prodigy, the heir.
The night it happened was etched into his memory with perfect, painful clarity. He was sixteen. A gala at the museum. His father, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "This will all be yours one day, son. You and Cissy." His mother, adjusting his tie. "So handsome. My little lawyer."
They left in the limo. He and Cissy, thirteen years old and already too wise for her age, followed in a separate car.
They found the limo two blocks from the museum. The doors were open. It was surrounded by police. His parents were gone. A double homicide. A robbery, they said. Their wallets, his mother's jewelry, gone.
But Franklin knew. He stood there on the sidewalk, holding a trembling Cissy, his perfect memory capturing every detail: the angle of the limo, the look on the cop's face, the specific make of the tire tread in a small patch of mud nearby. It was too clean. Too professional.
That was the moment the second chance ended and the mission began.
He looked at Cissy, her face buried in his side, and made a promise. He would protect her. And he would find out who did this.
He dove into his parents' world. The Saint John Group was a legitimate empire, but its roots were deep, and deep roots often touch dark soil. He realized the law was the key. The police had closed the case. It was up to him. He needed access, power, the ability to look into places no one else could.
So he became a lawyer. He devoured the law, not as a scholar, but as a weapon. His mind, a relic from a past life combined with the frightening potential of this one, became a vault of statutes and precedents. He graduated top of his class at sixteen, breezed through Harvard Law by nineteen, and became the youngest name partner in the firm's history by twenty-two.
He left the day-to-day running of The Saint John Group to Cissy. "You're the heart," he told her. "I'll be the shield." He remained the majority shareholder, the silent director. The company was their parent's legacy, and he would let nothing tarnish it. And from his glass tower at Saint Pearson Hardman, he began his real work: using the law as a crowbar to pry open the truth.
---
The car stopped. He was at his building. The penthouse.
He stepped out, the file in his hand. The elevator ride was silent and swift.
Cissy was waiting for him in the living room, perched on the edge of a sofa, a tablet clutched in her hands. She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. She'd been crying.
"Frankie," she said, her voice small.
"Start from the beginning, Ciss," he said, his voice calm. He didn't sit. He stood in the middle of the room, a statue of focused intensity.
"It's the new logistics division. The one we launched last quarter. One of the drivers, a man named David Elkins. He was on a long-haul run to Ohio. He… he had a heart attack. Crashed the truck. He didn't make it."
Franklin said nothing. He just watched her.
"His widow is suing. She's claiming wrongful death. She says the company pushed the drivers too hard, impossible schedules, that it led to the stress that caused his heart attack." She handed him the tablet. "The lawsuit, Frankie. It's brutal."
Franklin took the tablet. He didn't need to read it. He'd already memorized the file in his car. But he scrolled anyway, letting his sister talk.
"This is a nightmare. The PR alone… after everything Mom and Dad built…"
"The case has no merit," Franklin stated, his voice flat. "David Elkins had a pre-existing heart condition. He failed to disclose it on his medical forms. We have the records. The schedules are demanding, but they are within federal regulations. This is a shakedown. A greedy widow seeing a payday."
Cissy looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "Is it? Frankie, are you sure? I've been looking at the division's numbers. The managers there, they're pushing the limits. What if… what if we are partly to blame?"
"We're not," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He put the tablet down. "I'll handle it. I'll have my team bury them in motions. They'll drop it before it ever sees a courtroom."
"Your team? Frankie, you're not going to handle it yourself?"
"It's a straightforward case. It's beneath me." He turned to look out the floor-to-ceiling window at the city. His city.
"Nothing is beneath you when it's the company, Franklin!" she said, her voice rising. "This is what you do! You're the brilliant lawyer. You protect us. Don't just delegate this to some junior partner and forget about it."
He turned back, his cool gaze meeting her fiery one. "I said I'll handle it. That doesn't always mean I'll be the one in the courtroom. This is a minor irritation. A mosquito. We swat it and move on."
"A man is dead, Franklin! This isn't one of your legal puzzles! This is our company! Our name!" She stood up, tears welling in her eyes again. "Sometimes I think you don't care about the company at all. You just care about the game. About being the smartest man in the room."
The words hung in the air. Franklin didn't flinch. He just looked at her, his little sister, the only person he loved, and the only person who could hurt him.
"I care about you," he said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "And I care about the legacy. And I will not let some ambulance-chasing lawyer and a dishonest widow drag our parents' name through the mud. Trust me."
She searched his eyes, looking for the brother she knew was in there somewhere, behind the wall of ice and intellect. She must have found something, because her shoulders slumped in resignation.
"Okay, Frankie. Okay." She wiped her eyes. "I trust you."
He gave her a single, curt nod. "Good. Go home. Get some rest. I'll take care of it."
He watched her leave, the penthouse door closing with a soft, final click. The moment he was alone, the mask of calm dissolved. His jaw tightened. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number from memory.
"It's Saint," he said, his voice low and cold. "I want a full background on the widow. Angela Elkins. I want to know everything. Who she's talked to, what she spends her money on, who her lawyer is and who he plays golf with. And I want a deep dive on the managers in the logistics division. I want to know if they're cutting corners. I don't care how small. Find it."
He listened for a moment.
"I don't care about the cost. Just get it done."