Nicholas Vance had spent twenty-five years running from a basement.
He had built a company. A fortune. A fortress of boardrooms and bespoke suits and a reputation for being untouchable. He had convinced everyone — including himself — that the boy in that basement had died a long time ago.
But the boy hadn't died.
The boy was standing in a hotel hallway, watching Emma Hart's face turn pale, and he was terrified.
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The dinner had been unbearable.
Nick had sat at the head of the table, shaking hands, making toasts, laughing at Henderson's terrible jokes. But his eyes kept finding Emma. Across the room. Across the noise. She was taking notes, smiling, being perfect.
She was always perfect.
And she was leaving in six days.
He had tried to give her space. All day Tuesday, he had said
