It is a glass box suspended forty stories above Manhattan, decorated in shades of slate, charcoal, and aggression. The table is a twelve-foot slab of reclaimed teak that dominates the room with brutal elegance. The view is a panoramic sweep of the city I usually feel like I own.
Today, however, the view is making me nauseous.
I press two fingers against my temple, trying to massage away the headache that has become my constant companion since the "Cherub Incident." My doctor called it a mild concussion. I call it a persistent, rhythmic reminder that my life has been hijacked by a woman in a polyester bridesmaid dress.
I check my watch. 8:58 AM.
She's going to be late.
Satisfaction sparks in my chest. If she's late, she's disorganized. If she's disorganized, I have the upper hand.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall ding.
I turn, ready to deliver my opening line about punctuality.
But the words die in my throat.
I was expecting Ivy. One person, but three people step out of the elevator. They arrive together, aligned, unmistakably intentional.
Mason Kincaid leads the group. He wears a navy suit cut well beyond off-the-rack, a leather briefcase in hand that has seen courtrooms and survived them. He moves with the calm authority of a man who bills by six-minute increments and expects to be paid.
Flanking him on the left is a woman with wild, curly hair and hoop earrings large enough for a parakeet to swing through. She is wearing a vintage leopard print coat and a glare that could peel paint. That must be Savannah Kingston. I recognize her from the website bio.
And in the middle, protected like a high-value witness, is Ivy.
I blink.
Gone is the dirt-streaked, frantic woman in the ruined champagne dress. In her place is... a problem.
She's wearing a white linen sundress that manages to be both demure and distracting. A wide-brimmed hat is held in one hand. Her hair is smoothed back into a sleek, low bun. She looks polished. Expensive. Like she belongs in the Hamptons. Like she belongs in my world.
She catches my eye through the glass wall of the conference room. She doesn't smile. She lifts her chin, just a fraction, as if to say,Try me.I suppress a smirk. God, she's annoying. And unfortunately, she's perfect for the job.
I open the door as they approach.
"You're right on time," I say, abandoning my speech about lateness.
"We like to be prepared," Mason says smoothly, extending a hand. His grip is firm, professional. "Brooks. Good to see you upright."
"Mason," I reply, matching his grip. "I didn't realize you were representing Ms.Sullivan legally. I thought you were just... friends."
"I'm her counsel," Mason corrects, stepping into the room and claiming the head of the table as if he pays the lease. "And this is Savannah Kingston, partner in Ever After, Inc."
Savvy doesn't shake my hand. She looks me up and down, her eyes lingering on the bandage on my temple.
"It looks smaller than I hoped," she says.
"Savvy," Ivy warns.
"What? I'm assessing the damage," Savvy says, breezing past me to take a seat. She drops her purse on the teak table with a thud. "Nice office. Very... villain's lair. Do you have a white cat you stroke while you fire people, or is that in the budget for Q3?"
"I'm allergic to cats," I say, closing the door. "Please, sit."
Ivy takes the chair opposite me. She places her hat on the table and folds her hands in her lap. She looks calm, but the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat gives her away.
She's scared. Good. Fear keeps people compliant.
I slide a manila folder across the table toward her.
