2

Josephine

“Well, this should be interesting.”

The voice cuts through my carefully rehearsed presentation like a hot knife through butter, and I already know this day is about to go sideways faster than my last relationship. I haven’t even gotten to slide two of my meticulously crafted merger presentation, and someone’s already betting against me.

“Excuse me?” I turn toward the source—a silver-haired executive whose Rolex probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary.

“Nothing, dear. Please, continue with your… strategy.”

Dear.

The condescension drips off his words like syrup off a stack of pancakes, and I’m already calculating how to destroy his entire existence with nothing but a PowerPoint transition and my razor-sharp tongue.

But I smile instead. Because that’s what professionals do. We smile while plotting corporate murder.

“Right. As I was saying—” I click to the first slide, my laser pointer steady despite the fact that my internal monologue is currently screaming profanities. “Today, I’ll be walking you through the key phases of our rollout strategy with an emphasis on brand alignment, investor confidence, and—”

Ping.

The sound cuts through the conference room like a gunshot. My laptop screen flashes with a new email notification, and the subject line makes my blood turn to ice water in my veins.

CONFIDENTIAL: URGENT - Possible Bratva Connection

My stomach performs an Olympic-level gymnastics routine, complete with a triple axel straight into panic territory. The laser pointer in my hand suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds.

“One second, please.” My voice comes out steady, which is honestly a fucking miracle considering my brain just short-circuited like a laptop dropped in a bathtub.

Twenty pairs of eyes bore into me like I’m a particularly fascinating car crash, but I’m laser-focused on my screen. The sender is E—Evan Crawmore, the only person from my previous life who didn’t immediately throw me under the bus when everything went to hell. We’ve maintained contact through carefully coded messages and the kind of professional loyalty that’s rarer than unicorns in this industry.

I click the email open, and my pulse decides to audition for a death metal drummer position.

The attachment loads with the speed of dial-up internet circa 1995, which gives me just enough time to contemplate whether it’s possible to die from anticipation alone.

When it finally opens, I realize death might actually be preferable.

A leaked document. The kind that gets buried by powerful families or starts actual wars. The kind that makes grown men weep and seasoned PR professionals consider career changes in pottery.

A scandal involving Alexander Madrigal.

My breath catches in my throat like I’ve just been punched by the universe itself.

Alexander fucking Madrigal. My brother’s best friend. Valesquez’s younger brother. My teenage crush who morphed into a grown-up nightmare with cheekbones that could cut glass and a moral compass that points exclusively toward chaos.

According to the document—and I’m reading this three times because surely the universe isn’t this twisted—he was photographed leaving a private club in Manhattan with Isabella Orlando. As in, the daughter of Michael Orlando, notorious Bratva boss and the kind of man who makes other dangerous men check under their beds at night.

The document helpfully notes that surveillance footage shows her leaving his apartment the next morning, looking thoroughly satisfied and completely oblivious to the fact that she just handed the media a nuclear weapon.

I grip the edge of the desk as the room tilts like I’m on a particularly vindictive carnival ride.

This isn’t gossip. This is a catastrophe with a countdown timer.

If this story breaks before the merger—hell, if it breaks ever—it’ll detonate everything we’ve built. The Madrigal name tied to the Bratva? Investors would scatter like cockroaches when the lights come on.

Evan ’s message is characteristically brief: “Not running this until confirmed, but thought you should know. You’ve got maybe 48 hours before someone else picks it up. - E”

My mind kicks into crisis mode, spinning through damage control scenarios like a slot machine on steroids. Mitigation strategies, preemptive spins, ways to bury this so deep it needs archaeological excavation.

But underneath all the professional training and instinct, there’s something else twisting in my gut like a particularly spiteful snake.

Of all the people to implode my comeback…

Why him?

I realize I’ve been staring at my laptop screen like it personally insulted my mother for what feels like several geological eras. The room has gone silent except for the aggressive throat-clearing of executives who bill by the minute.

“Sorry, everyone. Technical difficulties. Let’s take fifteen.”

The phrase comes out robotically, like I’m malfunctioning corporate software. The room empties with the efficiency of people who’ve mastered the art of strategic bathroom breaks.

My father and Valesquez remain seated, their expressions ranging from mildly concerned to completely unreadable. I slide the laptop toward them like I’m handling radioactive material.

“You need to see this,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

They lean in, and I watch their faces change as they absorb the information. It’s like watching dominoes fall in slow motion, each realization hitting harder than the last.

Valesquez’s jaw tightens until I’m genuinely concerned he might crack a molar. His reaction is immediate and visceral—shoulders squaring, hands clenching, the kind of barely controlled fury that makes expensive suits look dangerous.

My father, predictably, remains as readable as hieroglyphics. His brows draw together slightly, mouth forming that thin line that usually precedes someone’s professional execution.

The silence stretches until it becomes a living thing, feeding on our collective panic.

Valesquez breaks first, shooting to his feet and beginning to pace like a caged predator. “What the hell is he thinking? If this is confirmed, this merger is dead in the water. We’re talking about complete annihilation.”

My father’s voice is maddeningly calm. “We don’t know if it’s verified.”

“We don’t need verification,” Valesquez snaps, his Italian accent becoming more pronounced with stress. “We need distance. Immediately. We need—”

“If we get ahead of it,” I interrupt, surprised by the steadiness in my voice, “control the narrative before it breaks, we might contain the damage. I still have media contacts. People who owe me favors.”

Valesquez stops pacing and turns to me with laser focus. “Do it. Whatever it takes. We need to protect the brand and bury this mess before it buries us.”

My father doesn’t even look at me. Just nods at Valesquez like I’m a tool they’re discussing rather than a person. “She’s the best crisis manager in the business. If anyone can handle this, it’s her.”

The implication hangs in the air like smog: if the merger implodes, it’s on me. My reputation, my comeback, my entire fucking future—all riding on my ability to clean up Alexander Madrigal’s spectacular mess.

Valesquez’s leather shoes whisper against the marble as he turns with predatory precision. His jaw is granite, eyes calculating damage and building fortresses around his family’s reputation.

“We control this story,” he says, voice low and commanding. “Before the vultures circle. You handle damage control, manage the narrative, make this disappear.”

My father leans forward, fingers steepled like he’s in prayer or planning someone’s professional funeral. “Agreed.”

No discussion. No hesitation. Just marching orders wrapped in expensive cologne and quiet desperation.

And suddenly I’m holding a bomb with a ticking clock, trying not to think about the fact that the fuse looks suspiciously like the man I swore I’d never deal with again.

My chest tightens, breath catching as memories threaten to surface. That night. The heat of his hands, the press of his mouth against my throat, the weight of a mistake we both pretended never happened.

One night. One monumentally stupid decision. One unspoken agreement to never acknowledge what happened between us.

I force the memories down, straightening my spine like armor.

This is business. I’m a professional. I can handle this.

But panic blooms in my chest like a toxic flower, and one thought circles my brain like a vulture:

Why did it have to be him?