My phone buzzes. Twelve missed calls from Derek. Five texts from Gretchen. And one email.
Subject: Welcome to Williams Ventures.
My heart slams into my ribs.
Dear Ms. Rodgers,
Congratulations on your new position as Lead Graphic Designer…
I reread it twice, letting it sink in. A fresh start. Proof that life goes on.
I delete Derek’s voicemails. Rinse my mug. Grab my dress and slip quietly out of the suite.
The elevator doors close around me, reflecting a slightly rumpled woman with kiss-swollen lips, last night’s dress, and eyes that are clearer than they’ve been in months.
Monday, I’ll be Professional Bailey. Competent Bailey. The Bailey who has her shit together.
But this morning, I’m just a girl who survived the worst night of her life and came out on the other side still breathing.
That feels like enough.
I don’t know it yet, but in forty-eight hours, I’m going to walk into my new office, look up from the HR paperwork… and see the stranger whose name I never asked.
2
Daniel
Iwake at five thirty, same as every morning.
My penthouse is silent except for the hum of the climate control system maintaining exactly seventy-one degrees.
I step into water hot enough to leave my skin red, pull on a charcoal Tom Ford suit that was flown into the country last week, and drink my coffee black while the overnight market reports glow on my tablet.
It's my usual routine. I never break it, except this morning, something is off. I can't focus on anything other than Friday night.
I don’t do that. I don’t pick up women in bars. I don’t lose control.
But on Friday, I did.
Her laugh, rough around the edges from whiskey and whatever shit she’s going through, was too cute to ignore. She’d looked at me like she could see past the suit and the money to something real underneath. The heat of her skin against mine, the catch of her breath when I—
I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary.
It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by too much scotch and Cassidy’s latest media assassination. The woman is a distraction I can't afford, and I need to lock Friday night in the vault where I keep everything else I can’t deal with.
I arrive at Williams Ventures at six forty-five, before most of the staff. The forty-four floored building dominates the block, with ‘Williams’ in block letters three stories tall across the facade. I built every floor of it. Started with one bet that worked, compounded it, and turned luck into leverage.
My office is on the top floor, with a corner view and windows on two sides, offering a view of the city. I settle behind my desk and open my laptop, diving into emails.
By eight thirty, I’ve handled three crises, approved two deals, and killed one project that would have hemorrhaged money within a quarter. My PR manager, Lottie, appears in my doorway at nine with her tablet and particular chaos brand.
“Morning,” she says, settling into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation. We have worked together long enough that formality died years ago. “Board meeting is at two. I’ve got the presentation ready, but you need to review it. Also, theJournalwants to comment on the Cassidy situation.”
“Tell them no comment.”
“I did. They’re running the story anyway.”
Of course they are. Cassidy’s latest hit piece, painting me as an emotionally unavailable workaholic who destroyed our relationship, dropped last week. Never mind that she’d been the one sleeping with a journalist to advance her own career.
