Aria, wait!

ARIA

The elevator ride to the 90th floor took exactly forty-five seconds. I knew because I used to count them.

I used to count them with excitement, my stomach fluttering as I rushed home to tell Mark about my day. Now, I counted them to keep my heart from exploding in my chest.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

I stepped into the private foyer of the penthouse. My penthouse.

The air smelled of lemon verbena and beeswax—the same cleaning products I had mandated three years ago. Nothing had changed.

I reached for the keypad on the wall to announce my arrival. My fingers hovered over the numbers 0-7-2-2—my father’s birthday. Muscle memory almost betrayed me. I almost punched in the access code that would have opened the door and revealed that I knew this house better than any stranger should.

I snatched my hand back just in time.

You are a guest, I reminded myself, my breath hitching. You don't know the code. You ring the bell.

I pressed the buzzer.

A moment later, the heavy mahogany door swung open.

Mark stood there. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo tonight. He was wearing a cashmere sweater and dark trousers, his feet bare against the hardwood floor. He looked casual, relaxed, the picture of a wealthy bachelor settling in for the evening. But I saw the tension in his shoulders. I saw the sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

"Aria," he smiled, stepping aside. "You made it. Welcome to my humble abode."

"It’s hardly humble, Mark," I said, stepping across the threshold.

The moment I walked in, the breath was knocked out of me.

It was a museum. A mausoleum of my former life.

The velvet curtains I had custom-ordered from Italy were still hanging in the windows. The abstract painting I had bought in Paris—the one Mark had hated—was still hanging above the fireplace. Even the throw pillows on the cream sofa were arranged exactly the way I used to arrange them.

He hadn't changed a thing. He was living inside my corpse.

"I designed it myself," Mark said, walking to the wet bar. "I wanted something open. Something that breathes."

I dug my nails into my palms. Liar. You didn't design a damn thing. You just stole it.

"You have exquisite taste," I lied, my voice smooth.

"Wine?" Mark offered, holding up a bottle of Château Margaux. "It’s a 2015. Very rare."

It was my wine. From my cellar.

"Pour it," I said. "But let’s not waste time, Mark. I have a flight to Tokyo in the morning. I want to get this done."

Mark’s eyes lit up. The greed was so naked it was almost pathetic.

"Of course," he said, handing me a glass. He didn't even let me sit down. He walked over to the coffee table where a stack of documents sat waiting. "My lawyers drew this up this morning. It’s exactly what we discussed. Twenty-five million for a forty percent equity stake and a seat on the board."

He uncapped a gold fountain pen and held it out to me.

"Just sign on the last page," Mark said, his voice tight. "And we can initiate the transfer."

I looked at the pen. Then I looked at him.

He was rushing. He was vibrating with desperation. He didn't want a partner; he wanted a payout.

I didn't take the pen.

I walked past him, moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. I looked out at the city lights, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.

"The view is incredible," I murmured.

"Aria," Mark said, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. "The papers."

I turned around slowly. I took a sip of the wine—it tasted like memories and betrayal—and set the glass down on the marble coaster.

"I’m not signing this, Mark," I said calmly.

Mark froze. The color drained from his face. "What? We had a deal."

"We had a verbal agreement," I corrected him. "Based on the assumption that Vance Logistics is a solvent company. But I’ve been looking at the preliminary papers you sent over. They’re fluff. Marketing brochures."

I took a step toward him, changing the dynamic. I wasn't the prey anymore. I was the auditor.

"Where are the liquidity reports?" I demanded. "Where are the offshore transaction logs for the last two quarters? You’re asking for twenty-five million dollars to 'expand,' but your operating account barely has enough to keep the lights on in this building."

Mark swallowed hard. "The... the auditors are compiling those right now. It’s end-of-year. The books are messy, but the value is there."

"The value is in the infrastructure," I countered, my voice sharpening. "But infrastructure doesn't pay debts. I ran a background check on your vendor payments, Mark. You’re sixty days past due on your shipping fuel. You aren't expanding. You’re drowning."

Mark stepped back, looking cornered. "That’s a temporary cash flow issue! That’s why I need the investment! Once you sign, everything balances out."

"I don't invest in 'temporary issues,'" I snapped. "I invest in certainty. Open your laptop."

Mark blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Open your laptop," I pointed to the device sitting on the desk. "Log into the Cayman accounts. Show me the reserves. If I see five million in liquid assets, I sign the check right now. If I don't... I walk."

It was a bluff. I knew the accounts were empty. I knew he had stolen everything and spent it trying to look rich. I wanted to watch him squirm.

"I can't," Mark stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "The... the security token is with my accountant. It’s late. I can't access it until morning."

"Then we wait until morning," I said, grabbing my clutch from the sofa.

"No!" Mark shouted, stepping between me and the door. "We can't wait! The deal has to close tonight!"

"Why?" I challenged him, getting in his face. "Is it because the market opens tomorrow? Or is it because you’re trying to take my money and run before the feds realize you’re insolvent?"

Mark looked at me with wild eyes. He looked terrifyingly desperate. He looked like a man who had run out of options.

"You don't understand," he hissed. "I need this."

"That’s not my problem," I said coldly. "You tried to play me, Mark. You thought I was just a pretty face with a checkbook. But I don't buy broken toys."

I sidestepped him and walked toward the foyer.

"The deal is off," I threw over my shoulder. "Don't call me again."

I reached for the door handle.

My heart was racing. I had pushed him to the edge. Now I just needed to get out before he snapped.

I gripped the cold brass handle and turned it.

It didn't move.

I frowned. I turned it again.

Locked.

It wasn't just a latch. The electronic deadbolt had been engaged from a master switch.

A cold chill ran down my spine.

"Aria, wait."

Mark’s voice came from behind me. It wasn't the charming voice of the host. It wasn't the desperate voice of the businessman.