“Board’s ordered an emergency session at noon. Martin Hale requested it. Donors are calling every line we have. Paloma’s been at the office since six trying to draft a response.”
I close my eyes. The prosthetics business taught me everything about reconstruction. About taking something broken and rebuilding it piece by piece until it functions again. But some damage is beyond repair. Some wounds won’t close no matter how advanced your technology.
This feels like one of those wounds.
“Sources familiar with the family.”
Gabriella.
Has to be Gabriella. Martin Hale’s sister. She’s the only one outside the family who knew the details.
She was there when I was twenty-five and stupid and grieving and I told her everything because I thought she actually gave a damn.
Gabriella.
What have you done?
We pull into the parking garage. I’m out of the car before Indira fully stops, striding toward the executive elevator with Callahan a half-step behind. My phone won’t stop buzzing. I silence it.
The 28th floor feels different when I step out. Quieter. People avoiding eye contact. That particular tension that fills a space when everyone knows something you don’t want them to know.
And there she is.
Bree. She left early, caught an Uber this morning.
She sits at her desk, laptop open, face illuminated by the screen. She’s reading the article. I can see the headline reflected in her glasses, inverted and damning.
She looks up. Our eyes meet.
The expression on her face guts me.
Betrayal and hurt. And recognition, like I’ve just confirmed her worst suspicions about men.
She didn’t know. I never told her. I was going to tell her. I swear to God I was going to tell her, but there was never a right moment.
She stands. Grabs her coat from the back of her chair. Walks past reception without a word to anyone.
I follow.
“Sir.” Paloma intercepts me near reception. “We need to discuss the response strategy. I have—”
“Not now.” I push past her.
“Nico. The board meeting is inthree hours.”
“I said not now.” I catch the elevator Bree’s taking before the doors trap us inside.
“Bree,” I begin.
Her eyes are chips of amber ice. “Don’t.”
“Let me explain,” I tell her.
“Explain what, exactly?” Her voice is low. “How you tried to blackmail yourown brotherinto giving up the woman he loved? Explain how you used threats and manipulation to control someone else? Yourown brother?”
I hit the stop button on the elevator, and it grinds to a halt. An alarm blares momentarily.
“That was ten years ago,” I tell her. “I was different. I was grieving and angry and I made a terrible fucking choice that I’ve spent a decade trying to make right. Dom and I reconciled. He forgave me. We worked through it. I wasn’t lying about that part.”
