Luke Vance slapped my hand away in the middle of the Plaza Hotel ballroom, hard enough to

For the next six months, I disappeared from the public eye.

I handed day-to-day operations of Sterling-Vance Innovations over to David Chen and a newly appointed executive board of veteran innovators.

I packed two bags and flew to my father’s private estate on the cliffs of Big Sur, California.

There were no board meetings there. No paparazzi cameras. No flashing lights or screaming headlines.

Only the vast, roaring expanse of the Pacific Ocean crashing against ancient granite rocks, the smell of salt and coastal pines, and the sound of silence.

Every morning, I woke at dawn and walked barefoot along the rugged shoreline.

The scars on my body had faded. The cut on my cheek had healed into a faint, barely visible pale line that only appeared when I caught the sunlight at a certain angle.

My father spent the afternoons with me, teaching me the intricacies of global maritime law and philanthropy that I had abandoned during my years with Luke.

“You carry no hatred in your eyes, Sammy,” Arthur said one evening as we sat on the stone terrace, watching the sun sink into a blazing horizon of gold and violet.

“Hatred is poison you drink hoping the other person dies,” I said, wrapping a woolen blanket around my shoulders. “Luke and Barbara and Khloe... they aren't worth the space in my head. They’re ghosts, Dad.”

Arthur smiled, raising his glass of sparkling cider toward me.

“Then what are you looking forward to, my dear?”

I looked out across the endless ocean, feeling the cool evening breeze brush across my face.