Maya’s pov

“Mr. Calder, the final revenue projections for the Henderson account still look off by about two percent in the third quarter,” I say, standing just inside his office doorway with the binder clutched tight against my chest.

My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Everyone else cleared out hours ago and the whole floor sits dark except for the warm spill of light from his desk lamp.

Rhett Calder looks up from the papers spread across his wide desk. Fifty-four years old, silver just staring at the temples, jaw still sharp, shoulders broad under the white shirt he has already rolled to the elbows.

He has the...