The revolving glass of Hale & Cross yielded. Margaux stepped onto the marble at 8:59 a.m. sharp, her Max Mara coat swishing against her calves like soft money. Eighteen months ago, security had escorted her out with a soggy cardboard box and a shredded pride. Today, the lobby felt smaller. The ceiling looked lower, smelling of ozone and cheap ambition.
She bypassed the desk. Sarah, the receptionist who used to "forget" her lunch orders, gasped, her fingers crushing her plastic latte cup. Margaux didn't blink, stepping into the mirrored elevator. Her lipstick was a red so deep it resembled dried blood. The thirtieth floor. This was the level Sloane Miller had stolen from her, along with her algorithm and her fiancé. The car lurched upward, a cold weight dropping in her stomach.
The doors parted onto the silver-grey silence of the executive suite. Julian Vane leaned against a mahogany console. He had the same sharp jaw, the same blue eyes that used to promise her the world. The overhead light caught his new wedding band as he straightened, his face turning the color of wet ash. He stepped to block her path. Margaux kept her stride, pulling the heavy, cream-colored envelope from her bag like a blade.
"Margaux," he breathed, his voice a ghost.
