“You’ve been summoned,” she said.
“Summoned?”
“The new owner wants to see you.” Her eyes glittered with barely contained delight. “Specifically. By name.”
I stared at her. That didn’t make sense. I was a junior reporter, a nobody who fetched coffee and fact-checked other people’s work. New owners didn’t summon nobodies unless those nobodies were about to be unemployed.
“Why?”
“How should I know?” She shrugged, but her smile widened. “I’d hurry if I were you. He didn’t seem like the patient type.”
She walked away before I could ask anything else.
I sat at my desk for a long moment, trying to calm the sudden racing of my heart. This was fine. This was probably nothing. Maybe he was meeting with everyone individually—some kind of orientation.
Or maybe I was about to get fired and should update my resume before walking upstairs.
The elevator ride felt endless. I watched the numbers climb and tried to steady my breathing. My palms were damp, andI wiped them on my skirt and immediately felt ridiculous. Whatever this was, I could handle it. I had handled worse.
The executive floor was all glass and polished surfaces—the kind of aggressive minimalism that screamed money. An assistant sat outside the corner office, perfectly groomed, barely glancing up as I approached.
“Pauline Wells?”
“Yes.”
“Go right in. He’s expecting you.”
The door was heavy. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The office was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city and sunlight streaming in so bright I had to squint. A massive desk dominated the space, dark wood and clean lines, positioned to make whoever sat behind it look powerful and intimidating.
The leather chair behind it faced the window. Turned away from me.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” I said to the back of the chair.
The chair spun around slowly.
Jack Specter sat there like he owned the place.
My blood turned to ice. I stood in the doorway of that ridiculous office and stared at him, and nothing—absolutely nothing—in my head made sense anymore.
He looked different here. Sharper, more polished than the man in sweatpants I’d yelled at in a parking lot. He wore a dark suit that fit him like a threat, his hair styled, his jaw clean-shaven.
He looked like what he was: a billionaire who had just bought a major media company and was sitting in his new throne room waiting for the peasants to grovel.
And he was looking at me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Pauline.” He said my name like he was savoring it, testing the weight of it. “Have a seat.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the expensive carpet and my heart was slamming against my ribs so hard it hurt.
“What are you doing here?” The words came out sharp and accusatory.
“I own the building.” He tilted his head, watching me. “I can be wherever I want.”
“You bought my company?” I shot out, disbelief scraping my voice raw.
“Technically, I bought a company. The fact that you work here is incidental.”
