I went — but not the woman they were expecting.

I wore a sharply cut charcoal suit and the single gold necklace my father had given me, and I rode the private elevator up to the top floor of Whitby Capital with my mind clearer than it had been in a year.

The floor was wrong when I stepped out.

The receptionist gone, the assistants’ desks empty, the whole executive level swept clean of witnesses.

I pushed open the frosted glass doors of the main boardroom and walked into the ambush they had built for a broken woman, and I was not broken, and that changed everything about the next twenty minutes.

Chapter 7 — The Table