The chime of the elevator doors opening echoed through the sterile, deserted hallway of the fourth floor. Derek Faulkner didn't bother to turn around. He assumed it was Lionel Graves, the wealthiest man in Riverbend, returning to plead for another favor or offer more unsolicited advice.
"I told you to leave, Lionel," Derek barked, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. "My patience has its limits."
"She is my daughter," a voice rasped from behind him—a voice that was familiar, jagged, and soaked in eight years of unprocessed grief. "I have more right to be here than you ever will."
The words hit Derek like a physical blow. He froze, his broad shoulders tensing under his black suit. The familiar scent of jasmine—Serena Ashford’s signature scent—wafted toward him, but it was corr
