MAXWELL’S POV
The expensive scotch in my glass was twenty-five years old, but it tasted exactly like ash.
Sitting heavily in my office chair while staring blankly at the panoramic view of the city offered no comfort. A full forty-eight hours had passed since firing Andrea. Forty-eight hours had dragged agonizingly by since watching her walk silently out of the penthouse.
Sleeping had been completely impossible.
Closing my eyes only brought vivid images of her face. Seeing the deep confusion in her dark eyes upon accusing her remained burned in my mind. Seeing the devastated way she had looked at the massive check brought her final, desperate words echoing back loudly. I never wanted your money.
"Liar," I muttered harshly to the empty room, taking another long swallow of the burning li
