Connor strides out of the boardroom ahead of me, leaving me feeling like I’ve just been run over by a steamroller of rage. I’ve met the devil himself—and he’s dressed in navy Armani, no less.
I know what I did was wrong on every level. I justified it by telling myself he wouldn’t miss one car from his massive collection, that he’s filthy rich while I’m filthy desperate.
But that’s bullshit, and I know it. A crime is a crime, regardless of how much money you have or don’t have. Dad would be ashamed. I’m a failure and a fraud. But I literally do feel like a cornered rat.
I can’t tell Connor or the cops. Deano’s thugs would come for Grace and Mom. So I’ll be the villain here, live with the guilt gnawing at me.
But I’m still stunned by Connor’s cruelty. He made me feel lower than dirt—something foul scraped off his expensive shoes. I’ve never felt such complete contempt from someone before. Regardless of the car, that man harbors a monster’s capacity for cruelty.
And now I have to slap on a smile and masquerade as an emotionally stable adult when all I want is to run to the bathroom and break down in tears.
Vicky and Brooke loiter nearby, pretending to chat over coffee.
The whole office has their eyes on me, doing a lousy job of pretending otherwise. It’s like a scene fromThe Office, if it were directed by Hitchcock. Trapped in my own living nightmare, right in the middle of my day job.
Across the cubicles, Kayla mouths aWTFwhile Abigail practically mounts the reception desk to hear better.
“Connor.” Vicky steps in front of him, blocking his escape. “Everything okay?”
Without missing a beat, Connor’s face breaks into the kind of grin worn by attractive psychopaths.
“Couldn’t be better,” he replies, smooth as silk.
He turns to me, eyes locking on mine, his grin morphing into something cruel. Before I can flee, he clasps my hand in an iron grip, fingers grazing my wrist with goose bumps.
“Good to see you again, Lexi,” he drawls, his mellow tone belying the predatory glint in his eyes.
No, Connor. Nothing about this is good. Because I see the volatile, dangerous man behind the charm.
I force out a reply, voice rough as a smoker’s. “You too, Mr. Quinn.”
Connor saunters to the elevator with his pack of suits in tow. Vicky scurries after, shooting me a death glare first.
“What was that about?” Brooke hisses.
I watch Connor disappear, feeling a cold dread unrelated to the busted AC.
Think fast.
I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Funnily enough, he went to school with my cousin way back when,” I mumble. I attempt an unbothered sashay away, suddenly very busy.
“So what? Why the private meeting?” Brooke demands, storming after me. “What did he want with you?”
Yikes.
“He was just being friendly, asking about my cousin,” I say, trying to sound bored. There, that should sound sufficiently dull and uninteresting.
She squints suspiciously. “But he called you Linda.”
“Oh, he just messed up names. It’s been forever . . .” I trail off, grasping for plausible details as panic constricts my windpipe. Is this my life now, tangled in lies?
“Who’s your cousin?”
I glance desperately at the poster of Gina Malone mid–squat thrust. “Cousin . . . Gigi! Yeah, Georgina.”
Brooke scrunches her nose, clearly not sold.
I plop down at my desk forcefully.
