Claimed by Her Father's Shadow

The rain came down in sheets, hammering the roof of the cab like it wanted to break in. Bridget Malone stared out the streaked window at the glass tower of Ridge Enterprises rising against the gray Seattle sky, and felt the same fury coil in her chest that had been there since her father dropped the bomb two weeks ago.

“You need structure, Bridge. A real job. Alex is doing me a favor by hiring you on as his assistant while you figure out what comes next.”

A favor. From Alexander Hale. Dad’s oldest friend. The man who’d once carried her on his shoulders at barbecues when she was six and now, apparently, thought she needed babysitting at twenty-four.

She paid the driver, stepped out into the downpour, and let the cold soak through her thin jacket in seconds. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Jake.

*You’ll regret leaving me.*

She’d already blocked him twice. Somehow, he kept finding new numbers. She swiped the notification away without opening it, shoved the phone deep into her bag, and pushed through the revolving doors.

The lobby smelled of money. Marble, polished brass, expensive cologne. She shook rain from her hair like a dog and headed for the elevators. Her boots squeaked on the floor. Heads turned. She ignored them.

The elevator doors slid open on the twenty-third floor with a soft chime. Bridget stepped out and froze.

Alexander Hale was waiting.

He leaned against the reception desk in a charcoal suit that looked tailored to piss people off, arms crossed, dark eyes already locked on her. Rainwater still dripped from the ends of her hair, but the air between them felt hotter than the summer she’d spent avoiding him at every family gathering after she turned eighteen.

“Bridget.” His voice was low, calm, the way it always was when he was deciding something. “You’re late.”

“I’m exactly on time.” She lifted her chin. “Traffic. Rain. Take your pick.”

His gaze slid down her soaked blouse. The white cotton now clinging in all the wrong places, then back up to her face. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“You look like you’ve been swimming.”

“And you look like you’ve been waiting to criticize me.” She stepped closer, refusing to break eye contact. “So, let’s get this over with. Interview. Tour. Whatever this is.”

He straightened to his full height, six-three, broad shoulders, forty-five years old and wearing every one of them like a weapon. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled.

“Follow me.”

He turned without waiting. She had to hurry to keep up, heels clicking against the hardwood corridor. Offices lined both sides, glass walls, people pretending not to watch.

He led her into a corner office that took up half the floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain lashed the glass. A massive desk dominated the space, dark wood, no clutter. One leather chair behind it. One in front.

“Sit.”

She didn’t.

He rounded the desk anyway, dropped into his chair, and gestured at the one opposite. “Sit, Bridget.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not a dog.”

“No.” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “You’re mouthier than one.”

Heat crawled up her neck. She hated that he could do that with one look. Make her feel sixteen again, caught staring too long at the way his forearms flexed when he grilled steaks.

She sat. Legs crossed. Back straight.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. “Your father tells me you’re… between things.”

“Between things,” she repeated flatly. “That’s one way to say my boyfriend turned into a controlling asshole and I needed to breathe for five minutes.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Not at her.

“And now you’re here.”

“Now I’m here.” She tilted her head. “Because Dad asked you to keep an eye on me. Like I’m still the kid who needed help tying her shoes.”

“You’re not a kid.” His voice dropped. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

The air thickened and he stood. Walking around the office for a while, he stopped right behind her chair.

She didn’t turn and he leaned down. Close enough that she felt the heat of him against her wet hair. His breath brushed her ear.

“You always this mouthy with older men?”

She swallowed. Turned her head just enough that their faces were inches apart.

“Only when they stare like that.”

His eyes darkened. “Like what?”

“Like they’re trying to decide whether to fire me or fuck me.”

A beat of silence. Then a low, rough laugh that vibrated through her.

“Careful, Bridget.”

“Or what?” She met his gaze. “You’ll teach me a lesson?”

He reached past her, fingers brushing the back of her hand where it rested on the armrest. The contact was deliberate. Electric.

“I could teach you a few things,” he said quietly. “If you asked nicely.”

Her breath caught. She hated him for it. Hated herself more.

The door opened.

Patrick Callahan, her father, strolled in like he owned the place. Which, technically, he kind of did. Silent partner. Old money. Best friend privileges.

“How’s it going?” Patrick asked, smiling like this was all perfectly normal.

Alex straightened instantly. Stepped back. Professional mask slammed down.

“She’s hired,” he said. Voice flat. No trace of the heat from seconds ago.

Patrick beamed. “Knew you two would get along.”

Bridget stood so fast the chair scraped. “Great. When do I start?”

“Monday,” Alex said. “Eight sharp. Don’t be late.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She walked out without looking back. Felt his stare burning between her shoulder blades the whole way to the elevator.

The doors closed. She leaned against the wall, heart slamming.

Her phone buzzed.

Jake.

*I’m in town. We need to talk.*

She stared at the message as her thumb hovered over delete.

Then another buzz. Unknown number.

*Monday. 8 a.m. Don’t be late.*

She knew exactly who it was. Her thumb hovered again.

Rain streaked the elevator glass.

What the hell was he playing at?

She hit delete on Jake’s text.

Alex’s stayed.