My CEO access card was dead.
"Ms. Simmons! You're finally here!"
Employees in the main lobby spotted me and immediately cleared a path to the service elevator. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
The doors slid open on the top floor.
Chaos.
Half the core team was gone. Desks were being cleared. People carried boxes toward the exits with shell-shocked expressions, like refugees fleeing a war zone.
And in the center of the storm sat Summer Simmons.
She lounged in a chair, sipping coffee while an assistant fanned her. "Hurry up and get lost!" she barked. "You bunch of trash have been leeching off this company for years. Do you have any idea how much money you're wasting?"
She gestured wildly at the senior staff. "And you old fossils! You're over forty and still clinging to your chairs? This isn't a nursing home! Security, block the elevators! Make them take the stairs!"
My blood ran cold.
Walter Chavez—a man whose strategic mind had saved this company twice—was being shoved toward the stairwell. His bad leg buckled. He tumbled down the steps, a box of files crashing onto him.
"Walter!"
I rushed forward, shoving aside the debris.
"Hey!" A new security guard—one I didn't recognize—spat on the floor. "Trying to pull a scam? Don't you know who I am? I'm the captain of the security team!"
I checked Walter. Abrasions, but conscious. I stood up, fury vibrating through my chest.
"Who the hell are you? Since when do thugs run security here?"
The guard raised his baton, ready to strike, but paused when he saw my face. Recognition flickered in his eyes—not respect. Malice. He signaled his buddies. They grabbed my arms, dragging me toward Summer.
Summer set down her coffee, cruel delight dancing in her eyes. "Well, well. If it isn't the cuckoo who stole the nest."
She looked me up and down. "You pitiful little worm. Now that I'm back, you can join this group of cripples and get the hell out."
Gone was the fragile victim from the villa. This was pure, unadulterated entitlement.
I turned my head. Jonathan stood nearby, a bright red handprint searing his cheek.
I wrenched against the guards' grip. "Do you have *any* idea what you're doing? You're gutting this company!" I shouted. "Let me go and rehire these people immediately!"
Summer scoffed. "You? Command *me*?" She jerked her chin toward the stairs. "That old geezer—is he your lover?"
She made a gagging noise. "So *that's* why you refused the marriage alliance. You have a thing for geriatrics? God, Sister, your tastes are disgusting."
Before I could retort, the elevator doors pinged.
A group of men in sharp suits strode in.
"Which one of you is Ms. Simmons?" the lead man asked.
He surveyed the chaotic scene, his brow furrowing in distaste. "Mr. Gilbert stated he will only cooperate with Miss Simmons. Wherever Miss Simmons goes, this contract follows."
Summer didn't recognize the man, but she heard the magic word.
*Gilbert.*
The richest family in the capital. The marriage alliance her parents coveted. She had overheard her father on the phone yesterday—Mr. Gilbert had personally set up a meeting after hearing the Simmons name.
It had to be because of her.
He was interested.
Summer waved her hand frantically. "That's me! I'm Miss Simmons!"
Paul Walker, Mr. Gilbert's executive assistant, studied her. He hadn't expected the office to look like a war zone, but his orders were specific: deliver the offer to the woman running the show.
He walked over and handed the draft contract to Summer.
"Miss Simmons," Paul said, his tone professional. "If there is still room to salvage the situation, you are welcome at the Gilbert Group."
He adjusted his glasses. "The compensation will match or exceed your current package. If you are willing, you can start immediately as a Vice President. Mr. Gilbert believes that even if you parachute in, your capabilities will silence any doubters."
Summer clutched the document, her eyes widening in triumph.
She completely missed the fact that the offer was for a business executive.
Not a socialite bride.
