3:05 p.m.
I start drafting a retraction. One paragraph, then two.
By the third, my jaw’s locked and my pulse is sprinting, each word a personal betrayal right up until I type my name at the end. But I can’t bring myself to upload it to the company website.
4:45 p.m.
I pace back and forth past the window, not seeing the skyline, only Raffael’s smug smirk from my father’s birthday party. The one he wore as he insulted my dress like I was a Christmas ornament reject instead of his equal.
4:50 p.m.
If I do this my reputation will never recover.
4:55 p.m.
Every glance at the clock makes my stomach twist tighter.
Then—
5:00 p.m.
I hold my breath and wait for the world to end, my blood thundering in my ears. But… nothing happens.
No scathing phone call. No authoritative email. There’s no word from my father. Or the snitch.
I exhale, the rapid vacuum of breath escaping like pressure from a valve.
I reclaim my chair, my spine straight, my lips tugging into a hint of a smirk.
I spend the next hour tying up loose ends, pretending the weight in my chest hasn’t shifted into something dangerously close to pride.
I didn’t back down. Didn’t surrender.
It isn’t until I’m preparing to leave for the night—taking my mass of coffee mugs and water glasses to the kitchenette—that a shadow darkens my office doorway.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Cross.” Fletcher’s voice is polite, his expression apologetic. “Your father’s requested your company for dinner. I’ve been asked to escort you right away.”
Chapter
Six
ISLA
The Bentley easesto a smooth stop, delivering me to what feels like my execution site.
I snap my compact mirror shut, cap my mascara with a sharp twist, and toss them both into the purse I abandon on the back seat.
When control slips through my fingers, I fall back on lashes and lipstick. A pathetic kind of armor—but tonight, I doubt even war paint could save me.
I glance out the window, expecting an exclusive restaurant or one of my father’s usual haunts.
Instead, I’m met with the glittering lights of North Cove Marina, where the city skyline reflects off the dark, glossy water and dances across the hulls of luxury boats docked in meticulous rows.
Fletcher clears his throat from the driver’s seat. “Apologies for the delay. Your father expected you earlier than this, but the congestion around Battery Park was heavier than anticipated.”
That explains the tightness in his tone… just not the destination.
“Don’t worry. Tardiness is the least of my concerns.” I unclip my belt as a woman in a crisp navy uniform approaches from the sidewalk. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”