I thought I was done with him.
Turns out ghosts don’t need invitations.
Work has always been my refuge. When my mind won’t shut up, numbers do. So I grab my coat and leave before I tear the place apart with my thoughts.
The executive floor is dim when I arrive, lights softened for the night shift. My footsteps echo as I move down the corridor toward my office, already running through reports I can bury myself in. I’m almost past the main conference room when voices drift out through the partially closed door.
I don’t slow at first. Late meetings aren’t unusual. Then I hear a familiar voice…
Mila?
My body reacts before my mind does. I stop so abruptly my shoes scrape against the marble floor. Her voice is tight, strained in a way I’ve never heard before. Not nervous…afraid. There are other voices too—male.
I move closer, every instinct in me snapping awake. I stop just outside the doorway, trying to listen without alerting them.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Mila says shakily. “I was just leaving my letter of resignation for Andrei,” she says.Fuck.
“You shouldn’t have been anywhere near those files,” one of the men cuts in.
Another voice follows, colder. “Do you have any idea what you’ve stumbled into?”
My jaw tightens.
Obviously, she has no idea. I can hear that much immediately. She’s confused, trying to explain herself, trying to de-escalate something she doesn’t even understand. But I do.
Shipping containers. Altered manifests. Missing entries hidden behind internal approvals. A problem I’ve been quietly unraveling for weeks. And now the pieces snap together.
I recognize the voices.
Roger, the CFO, and Howard Abrams.
Men who stayed on after my father died. Men who smiled to my face while resisting every move I made toward legitimacy. Men who thought I was too soft. Too young. Too different from the man who came before me.
The feeling of betrayal lands heavy in my chest, sharp and ugly, but I shove it aside.
Mila matters more than their treachery.
I pull out my phone and text my head of security with quick, precise instructions.
Then I hear Howard again.
“I knew you were trouble the moment I saw you,” he says, his tone dropping into something dangerous, “You’ve got to go.”
That’s it. I can’t wait any longer.
I push the door open hard enough that it slams against the wall. All three of them turn toward me. Mila’s eyes widen, her expression going from shock to relief in seconds—and then fear again when she sees my expression.
Roger barely has time to react before I pounce on him. Surprise is a weapon, and I use it to my advantage. My fist connects with his jaw, the impact jarring up my arm. He stumbles back, clips the table, and goes down hard, unconscious before he hits the floor.
Howard lunges for me with a shout.
We crash into the conference table, papers scattering. He’s heavier than he looks, desperate and fueled by panic, but I’ve spent my life learning how to put men down without killing them. I twist, drive my elbow into his ribs, feel the air leave his lungs in a sharp wheeze.
He swings anyway. I duck, grab his arm, and slam him face-first into the table. He snarls, fights dirty, but desperation makes him sloppy.
I wrench his arm behind his back and force him to his knees just as the door bursts open again.
Men in security uniforms flood the room.