Andrea stepped out of the elevator onto the forty-seventh floor, forcing her steps to stay calm even though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. The confrontation with Caleb downstairs still burned in her chest like acid. His smug, remorseful smile, the way he had casually mentioned “hearing things” about her and Henry—it all made her skin crawl. She smoothed the front of her navy dress with trembling hands, took a slow, steadying breath, and walked toward her desk with her head held high, praying no one could see the tremor in her fingers or the way her pulse hammered in her throat.

She sat down heavily, opened her laptop, and...