(Virginia's POV)
The next morning, I'm standing in the marble lobby of Cross Industries at exactly nine AM, wearing my most professional outfit and practicing my most concerned expression in the reflection of the elevator doors.
Dorian Cross has offices on the forty-second floor, according to the company directory. Getting past security was easier than I expected—a tearful story about being Scarlett's concerned friend, worried about her getting involved with the wrong sort of man, was enough to get me a visitor's badge and an escort to the executive level.
"Mr. Cross is in meetings all morning," his assistant—a severe-looking woman with silver hair and sharp glasses—tells me without looking up from her computer. "If you'd like to make an appointment—"
"It's urgent," I interrupt, lettin
