Chapter 2

I didn't call ahead.

I walked into the Kensington Tower lobby in the same clothes I'd worn on the plane, and two men I had never seen before stepped directly into my path.

"Badge or QR code," the bigger one said. "No entry without Genevieve's clearance."

I looked at him. "I'm Sloane Kensington. This is my building."

The two of them exchanged a glance. Then they laughed.

"Sloane who? We answer to Preston and Genevieve. Nobody else."

Before I could respond, I heard heels on marble.

Genevieve Laurent walked out of the elevator carrying a Starbucks cup, wearing a Chanel suit that I was fairly certain had been expensed to the company account.

She moved through the lobby like she owned it — easy, unhurried, performing for the room.

I watched her. And then I saw it.

A small birthmark just below her left collarbone. The size of a coin.

My mind snapped back ten years — to a manila folder on my desk, a charity trust application, a photograph of a teenage girl from a trailer park outside Odessa, Texas.

Father in and out of prison. Drug debts. A caseworker's note that said if funding didn't come through, the girl would likely be sold off to cover what her father owed.

I had approved that application without a second thought.

I had been funding her anonymously ever since.

The Ivy League tuition. The apartment deposits. The "fresh start" money every time she asked for it.

That was no French socialite standing in my lobby.

That was Brandy Jenkins.