The digital clock on the wall of the executive floor read 8:42 PM. The rest of the building was a ghost town, swallowed by the quiet hum of central air conditioning and the distant, muted roar of Seattle traffic below. But I wasn't thinking about architectural projections, quarterly milestones, or Pacific expansions.
My mind was entirely consumed by the memory of Saturday afternoon—by the blinding, homicidal rage that had spiked in my chest every time Leo Vance flashed his infuriating, easy smile at Chloe in her own kitchen. The fact that he shared a zip code with her, that he could walk three doors down and knock on her door whenever he pleased, felt like a slow-burning poison in my veins.
Then the elevator bell chimed softly.
I looked up from my desk. Through the glass panels, I s
