Roxie Sterling

The heavy double doors of Garrison’s private executive suite closed behind us with a mechanical click, shutting out the noise and chaos of the executive floor.

Julian had stayed behind at the server bank down the hall, already working to manage the market loops. With him finally out of the room, some of the pressure eased. For the first time in forty-eight hours, we were free from the exhausting performance. No reporters, no corporate vultures, no curious relatives watching our every move for signs of a scandal.

Rain tapped steadily against the floor-to-ceiling windows, filling the otherwise quiet office with a soft rhythm.

I remained by the door,...