One
638 Words
Chapter 1 — The Ice Queen
Victoria
By eight forty-five on Monday morning, I had already fired someone.
By nine, I had made three executives sweat through their expensive suits.
By nine fifteen, I had reminded myself why I preferred numbers to people.
“Cancel my eleven o'clock.”
My assistant looked up from her tablet.
“Mr. Reynolds flew in from Chicago specifically for that meeting.”
“Then he can fly back.”
She hesitated.
“Victoria—”
I slowly lifted my eyes.
She stopped.
Not because I had raised my voice.
I rarely did.
People had learned that I didn't need to.
“Cancel it,” I repeated.
“Yes, ma'am.”
She disappeared through the glass doors.
I turned back toward the windows.
Thirty-one floors above Manhattan, the city looked almost peaceful.
Almost.
I loved it from up here.
The distance.
The order.
The illusion that everything below could be controlled if I simply watched closely enough.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass.
Long dark-brown hair fell neatly over my shoulders. My eyes were a deep hazel, sharp enough to make nervous executives suddenly remember forgotten meetings. My skin was warm brown, and I had the kind of face magazines described as striking rather than soft.
I preferred striking.
Soft things broke.
My black tailored suit fit perfectly, the jacket buttoned neatly over a cream silk blouse. Nothing about my appearance was accidental.
Nothing about my life was either.
At thirty-one, I was the CEO of Hayes International, the company my father had once told me I would never be capable of running.
I had proved him wrong.
That was something I had become very good at.
Proving people wrong.
My phone vibrated.
I glanced at the screen.
Jamal.
I answered reluctantly.
“I'm working.”
“Good morning to you too, Your Majesty.”
I closed my eyes.
“Jamal.”
“You sound like someone just murdered your puppy.”
“I don't have a puppy.”
“Exactly. That's your problem.”
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifted.
Jamal had that effect on people.
He was the only person I knew who could walk into a room full of billionaires wearing a purple suit, gold shoes, and sunglasses and somehow become the most memorable person there.
He was loud.
Dramatic.
Unapologetically himself.
And completely impossible to intimidate.
“There's a charity gala tonight,” he announced.
“No.”
“You haven't heard the details.”
“I don't need to.”
“Beautiful people.”
“No.”
“Free champagne.”
“No.”
“Powerful businessmen.”
I paused.
“Still no.”
“Victoria.”
“Jamal.”
“You need a life.”
“I have one.”
“You have spreadsheets.”
“Spreadsheets are peaceful.”
He groaned.
“You're coming.”
“I have work.”
“You're the CEO. Fire yourself for the evening.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
“Two hours.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Fine.”
I heard him clap.
“Wonderful! I'll pick you up at seven.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Two hours.
That was all.
Two hours away from work.
Two hours away from my carefully controlled world.
I had no idea that those two hours would bring a ghost from my childhood back into my life.
A ghost wearing an Italian suit.
A ghost with familiar dark eyes.
A ghost who had spent twenty years remembering a little girl everyone else had forgotten.
And he was coming for me.
Not because he wanted my company.
Not because he wanted my money.
But because he knew something I didn't.
He knew exactly who I was.
His Hamster.
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