Nobody expected Dorothy Cole to walk into Scott Tower.
The receptionist nearly choked. The security team exchanged looks. By the time she reached the forty-second floor, Damian's PA, a sharp-eyed woman named Iris, was already on her feet.
"Miss Cole," Iris said, pleasantly lethal, "you don't have an appointment."
"I don't need one." Dorothy smiled the way she always smiled — wide enough to be charming, empty enough to be terrifying. "Tell him Dorothy Cole is here with something he'll want to hear."
She was made to wait forty minutes. She sat with her handbag in her lap, legs crossed, face composed, while assistants bustled and phones rang and the empire hummed around her. Dorothy had grown up in wealth. She was not intimidated by it.
She was, however, desperate. And desperation made h
