Julia’s heels echoed sharply against the marble floor of Hughes Headquarters. The sound alone felt like rebellion. She hadn’t walked through these doors since her suspension, and every step reminded her of why—every whisper, every stare, every reminder that she was Julia Bailey, the woman who dared to stand beside the disgraced heir.
The receptionist’s forced smile faltered as Julia flashed her badge. “I’m here to see James Whitmore.”
“Is he expecting—”
“He will be,” she cut in, her voice clipped.
Within minutes, she stood outside the executive office. The frosted glass door bore his name in bold letters, sharp as a knife. She didn’t knock.
James looked up from his desk, all polished charm and predator’s grin. “Julia. Now there’s a surprise. I thought you’d cut ties with Hughes for go
