The floor, white marble with dark veins, was gorgeous, but it lacked the warmth, the sense of lived-in-ness that Killian’s house had. It was beautiful, cold, and sterile.
Just like the Tremaines.
Ignoring what that might say about her now, Dizzie stepped out and took a closer look at the room. Three of the walls were clear, floor-to-ceiling glass. The fourth wall was frosted, probably hiding the offices.
A cold chrome desk sat in front of the frosted glass, clearly limiting access. Polished metal handles on the glass were the only indication of a door.
This had to be the place.
The desk’s owner was probably Tremaine’s assistant. Dizzie remembered the weasel from her time in the cells.
Dizzie shuddered. She’d love to forget those terrible hours in the cells.
Why wasn’t he at his post? Somebody should be here. How on earth was this place supposed to make money if no one was in the office?
Oh, god. She sounded like a Tremaine.
Was a love of money genetic? She’d been saving to buy her freedom, not some deep-seated need to accumulate riches, but did that make a difference?
Her whole life had turned topsy-turvy.
She looked up toward the ceiling. “Do you know what’s going on?” she said aloud. There had to be cameras, even here on the most sacred of floors. Maybe especially here. Anyone wanting to see Tremaine would surely be filmed—their every weakness discovered and dissected before they passed the big shiny desk.
No reply from her mystery friend.
Fine.
Dizzie wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and stepped forward.
Stopped.
Looked up at the cameras again. After this week’s life-changing events, she didn’t want to take another step into the unknown. There was no good answer that would explain why she had grown up in the orphanage. Maybe she should just leave.
Hesitating will only get her caught. She needed to move. Now.
One step forward, then another. And another. When she was parallel with the desk, she peered behind it, heart racing.
There was nothing there. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe a body on the floor behind it. She shook her head. Too many vids.
Still tense, she waited for something to announce her presence. An alarm. A secret password.
Was the whole situation a trap? She shouldn’t be able to get this close to Phillip Tremaine’s door without supervision.
There had to besomething! She blinked to activate her optical display. Maybe it would show her what she was missing. Instead, there was absolutely nothing.
That had never happened in headquarters before. It almost never happened anywhere—unless a dampening field was installed.
It would make sense if there was jamming equipment on this floor to prevent surveillance. After all, this was the heart of the corporation.
Figuratively.
The Tremaine Corporation didn’t have a heart. That was pretty damn obvious since the CEO’s daughter had grown up in the orphanage. Theonsiteorphanage.
Phillip Tremaine had never bothered to come see how she was doing. Had he kept track of her at all?
Dizzie had never questioned her file. The company made a pretty big production about giving the crèche kids access to their files when they turned eighteen. All the data they had, they promised. Most of the kids had the same story—found in the city, brought to the company. Reared and educated, trained and given a job. All the corporation asked for was complete loyalty. And your whole life.
Now, given the results of the DNA test, her history had to be a lie. Those “unknowns” that populated the form were obviously a lie. What else were they hiding?
