Chapter 1 - The Stain on the Fortieth Floor
The dark liquid bloomed like poison across the immaculate weave of Alden Remington's three-hundred-dollar Italian cotton shirt.
Steam rose between us in the sudden, suffocating silence of the fortieth floor.
My hands were still trembling around the empty paper cup whose flimsy cardboard lid had betrayed me.
"Get out," Alden said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin register that cut straight through the hum of the trading floor.
Two junior analysts froze by the water cooler, their eyes darting away in terrified compliance.
"Alden, it was an accident," I said, fighting to keep my voice level as my pulse hammered against my ribs.
"I was reading the email you just sent, the hallway was crowded, and I tripped."
"You ruined my shirt, Harper," he snarled, stepping forward so close I could smell his expensive bergamot cologne.
"This is custom-tailored, and you are an incompetent, clumsy disaster."
"I will gladly pay for the dry cleaning, or replace the entire shirt today," I offered, swallowing my pride for the thousandth time.
"You think this is about dry cleaning?" he laughed, a bitter, vicious sound that turned the heads of senior partners inside glass offices.
"You have been dragging your feet in this department for months, questioning my authority, and treating this firm like your personal daycare."
I had given Remington Ridge Capital fifteen years of my life.
I had started here at twenty-three, arriving before sunrise and leaving long after the cleaning crews had emptied the trash cans.
I had missed birthdays, doctor appointments, and school recitals to protect his father’s legacy from catastrophic market swings.
And now, the founder's thirty-year-old son was wiping dark roast off his silk tie and discarding me like an empty envelope.
"Alden, let's step into an office and discuss this like professionals," I urged quietly.
"We are not discussing anything," he shouted, deliberately raising his voice so every executive could hear him.
"Security!"
Down the corridor, heavy footsteps echoed against the polished marble floor.
Sam, the head of building security who had worked the front desk for twelve years, walked up with a pained expression on his weathered face.
"Mr. Remington?" Sam asked cautiously, his eyes darting to the stain on Alden's chest and then to me.
"Take her badge and escort her out of this building immediately," Alden commanded, crossing his arms over the stain.
"Mr. Remington," Sam whispered, his tone pleading.
"This is Ms. Lively, the senior strategist."
May you like
"I know who she is, Sam," Alden snapped, his jaw tightening with cruel satisfaction.
"She doesn't work here anymore."
