Chapter 2

The next morning I showed up at the office looking like I hadn't slept, because I hadn't.

My company wasn't large. It occupied half a floor in a sleek building near the fashion district.

Every inch of it had been paid for one ugly project at a time.

By me and Sophie Bennett.

My college roommate. My only real friend. My business partner.

Beautiful, viciously sharp, impossible to fool.

Back in college, she had been the one person who never believed Marcus and I would last.

She had told me, "That man has too much buried behind his eyes. The water around him is deep, and you don't know how to swim in deep water."

I hadn't listened.

Eventually, I nearly drowned.

That morning, I threw my bag onto my desk and collapsed into my chair.

"You look awful," Sophie said from the break room, handing me a cup of coffee. "So. Which capitalist drained the life out of you this time?"

"Don't ask," I muttered. "I saw a ghost."

"Male ghost or female ghost?"

"Male."

"Hot?"

"Hot enough to make me want to twist his head off and kick it down the street."

Sophie sat across from me and looked me over.

"Marcus Holt?"

I drank my coffee in silence.

That was answer enough.

"Unbelievable," she said flatly. "Five years later and he climbs out of your graveyard like this?"

I told her about the negotiation.

About the way I looked him in the eye and asked if we'd ever met.

Sophie slapped her thigh and grinned.

"Good. He deserved it."

Then she sobered.

"But this isn't random. He sends you a file, insists you handle the account personally, and starts acting sentimental? He's after something."

"I don't care what he's after," I said. "It's a project. I'll handle it like any other."

Sophie leaned forward.

"Summer. Stay away from him."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

Her tone sharpened.

"Don't let some expired version of your past blow up everything you built over the last five years."

I didn't answer.

Because I remembered those five years too clearly.

The days spent cleaning up other people's disasters.

The nights crying into my pillow until I threw up.

The months when I could barely pay staff on time.

The long, humiliating climb back to a life that belonged to me.

By then, my company had a name.

I had a home, a car, a reputation.

I had built a life so solid I no longer needed anyone.

Especially not him.

That afternoon, while we were in a team meeting going through the integration checklist, the receptionist knocked and leaned in nervously.

"Miss Blake? Mr. Holt from Apex Capital is downstairs. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says he'll wait."

The marker slipped in my hand and left a black streak across the whiteboard.

I stared at it for a second.

Then I said, "Tell him I'm busy."

"He said--"

"I said I'm busy."

Her expression tightened. She nodded and left.

The entire meeting room went quiet.

I took a breath and forced my voice flat.

"Why are you all staring? Keep going."

The meeting ended near seven.

On my way past reception, I asked casually, "Did he leave?"

"About two hours ago," the receptionist said.

I nodded as if it meant nothing.

Then I went back into my office, stood by the window, and stared down at the street where his black Maybach was no longer parked.

I felt relief.

And then, against my will, something colder and hollower right behind it.

I told myself to stop being pathetic.

Then sent my assistant a message.

**Push every meeting next week related to Apex Capital onto the deputy director. Make up whatever reason you want.**

I put the phone down facedown and told myself that was the end of it.

The next morning, the receptionist texted me before nine.

**Something was dropped off for you. No name.**

She attached a photo.

Two oat lattes.

Less sugar.

A sticky note.

**You still take it light, right?**