PROLOGUE
ANDREA
If you’re reading this story, you’re three hours too late.
While you were salivating over the sexy bastard on the cover, I was crouched in the shadows of Cross International’s boardroom, counting down the seconds before committing a murder.
The moment the last terrified employee clocked out, I slipped out of the closet—extension cord in hand—and did the world a favor by strangling Harrison Cross.
You’re welcome.
Please send gifts to my prison cell—preferably coffee, ramen noodles, and a strong Wi-Fi signal.
Thanks to me, my coworkers will no longer have to suffer through a man who thinks his presence is “a present.” They’re officially done putting up with an arrogant asshole who schedules meetings at inhumane hours—all while bending me over his desk and lecturing about “personal boundaries.”
I’m pretty sure his handprint is still on my ass…
There will never be another “Thank you for your attention to this issue” email in the wee hours of the morning. No more heated stares that make me question my every thought, and nomore intense nights in his office where the faint, professional line between us blurs and burns within seconds.
Then again, a girl can dream.
Everything above was ripped straight from the pages of my personal revenge fantasy.
I just wish reality had actually let me write it.
Unfortunately, all I can do now is redraft the past few months in utter shame.
I’m internally screaming at the silly heroine who can’t stop making terrible decisions—especially the one where she trusts the gorgeous and conceited billionaire with deep emerald eyes, impeccably tailored suits, and a permanent “I dare you” smirk on his seductive lips.
If I’d known what I know now, I swear I would’ve walked away long before it got to this point—long before he forced me to sign away the final terms of my life.
At least, that was the case before he called me tonight…
ONE
HARRISON
Six Months Ago
Before she signed away “the final terms” of her life.
The last time I flew out of New York City, I vowed never to land my plane in this place again.
I’d done all I could do there—bought and sold companies, made a killing on Wall Street, built and burned almost every bridge I ever crossed.
For eight years, I’d kept my distance, letting my reputation as “Mr. Cutthroat” and “Mr. Steal Your Company” spread to other cities.
Seattle. Miami. Los Angeles.
To anyone who actually believed the words the journalists wrote about me, they were all “victims” of The Cross Effect, a phrase so infamous that Webster’s was considering adding it to their dictionary.
Alas, my anti-New York stance changed one night last year, when an elderly CEO called me with one hell of a deal for his company: six hundred million dollars for a coffee shop thatonly rivaled Starbucks—the very place I actuallydespised—and a chance to return to my place as the top billionaire in Manhattan.
Then again…
I looked down at the stack of open lawsuits I needed to sign off on by the end of this flight.
Pushing up the window shade, I clicked my pen and started reading through the newest onslaught of people who wanted to sue me.
