"As I've tried to explain to you, Ms. Pierce," the receptionist rolled her eyes, phones trilling loudly, "Sandra Higgins is presently engaged in a long distance conference call with—"

"Listen to me, you get her. Or I will." fuming, I leaned over the marble meridian of her desk, eyes narrowed. I was so livid at this point I was almost levitating.

I'd walked the six blocks to the New York Times building, my temper roiling to a full boil, scorching the chill of shock from my bones, leaving me hot and dangerous. Someone was going to pay. I didn't particularly care who, but someone. And some power-tripping little Barbie who'd only just graduated from high school wasn't going to get in my way.

"I can't just interrupt her call. So you can sit and wait. Or you can leave, as I've suggested countless time, and schedule an appointment for when she's available." Signaling she was done with me, headset affixed to her left ear, she clicked the button on the side to answer the slew of incoming calls with a cheerful, 'Good morning the New York Times'.

Disconnecting the line with a press of my finger to the cradle, I felt the first soothing lick of satisfaction as her mouth fell open in a gaping expression of Oh my god I can't believe you just did that!

"I have nowhere to go and can do this all morning. Right up until you call security at which point I'll make a scene. A massive scene. Huge. The sort that will turn a lot of heads and raise a lot of questions. And when those questions are lobbed at Mark Thompson, your CEO, I'll only be too thrilled to highlight in pristine detail your insufferable, incompetent attitude. Who, do you think, will walk away from this unscathed? You or me?"

Nostril's flaring, plum shaded lips pressed into a thin, determined line, the receptionist punched in a series of numbers, and waited.

"Jules—I need Sandra out front. Yes, I'm aware of that. Tell her it's urgent." Those thickly mascara-covered lashes flickered, narrowed around seething dark eyes. "I'll buy you lunch, just get her out here now."

Whatever the exchange between receptionist and what I assumed to be an assistant, Sandra appeared shortly thereafter, face flush with annoyance. Her stately hair, a soft ash blonde, winged around her oval face.

The expression that crossed her features the instant she saw me said she had more than an idea as to what brought me to the Times. Good. I was spoiling for a fight. And at least now I knew she and I would be sparring on the same field.

Mentally rolling up my sleeves, I prepared to go in with bare knuckles.

"I expected more from you, Sandra. More than going behind my back like this. How could you?" I snapped, heedless of the passing bodies and flickering gazes.

"Jesus, Laura. Not here. Not like this." Gathering my arms, Sandra pulled me aside, lowered her voice. "Meet me in half an hour. There's an Italian place on 42nd and 6th. It's quiet and they always have a table ready for me in the back. We'll meet there and discuss this like civilized women, okay?"

Still furious and far from placated, I wrenched my arm from her manicured grip. But she was right. This wasn't the place for us to deal with the matter. Not without spraying a lot of lighter fluid on an already volatile powder keg.

"Half an hour," I agreed, the words simmering with warning. "Heaven help you if you're late, Sandra."

The restaurant wasn't hard to find. And as she'd said it was quiet. Cozy and intimate, old world Italian with scarred floors and white linen tables. Seated in a curved booth at the back, I ordered a glass of wine and a tumbler of scotch.

Today was the sort of day that warranted something strong and gut-kicking. God, I felt like I'd been spun through an emotional wringing of insanity, and it was only just shy of twelve. Had my life only been flipped inside out three short hours ago? It felt longer. A lifetime. And everything around me no longer seemed real. Solid. I brushed my fingers over the white cloth covering the round table. The texture almost rough as sandpaper against my savaged nerves—still so raw from the emotional beating in Tristan's office.

The way he'd looked at me. To see the heat and temper bleed out of him, leaving behind a cold, empty husk...taking Anthony's knuckles to the face had hurt less. Bruised less. Tristan ahd broken me with words, with the finality of them.

He'd told me once, You can walk away anytime you wish. But please bear in mind once that door closes, I never reopen it. Ever

Well, he was the one doing the closing. So did what did that mean? Was there hope? A chance? If I fixed things, would that change circumstances? I didn't think so, and more importantly, I had to ask myself—did I want to? After all, he'd just given up. Cast me aside at the first sign of trouble. Did I deserve that? No. Would I have done the same to him? Never.

Tristan had always demanded my unwavering faith and trust, well where the fucking hell was his? God damn hypocrite. And knowing now that I meant far less to him then his position, status and wealth made the tears blistering behind my eyes want to fall anew. I was wrong about him. So terribly wrong. And the grief sliced me open from navel to throat, spilling my guts at my feet.

Leaving hollow. Empty. Void.

But I would not wallow in self-misery for long. I would turn this around, not for him but for me. Because I deserved better than to have my entire life and all that I'd worked so hard to earn stripped away by the likes of Jim Verasster. But first, I needed answers.

Imbued with renewed purpose, I sipped the scotch, counting down the minutes. Sandra had begged for thirty and arrived at the restaurant just shy of nineteen.

Good. She was early, which meant she knew I wasn't in the mood for fucking around or playing games.

"Laura," she said, sliding into the opposite side of the booth. Sighing heavily, she reached for the bottle and poured out a glass of red. Sipping, she studied me over the rim.

"I'm not going to waste my breath covering what you already know," I said, waving my scotch. "So just tell me now—were you in on it?"

"No. No I wasn't. Though I don't know why you're so surprised this got out. When I came to you weeks ago I told you it would eventually. But you didn't want to be at the head of the matter—you could have been in control. Now you're forced into playing defense, and that's always an ugly, uphill battle."

"Why didn't you warn me? Jesus—even a courtesy email, why let me get blindsided?"

"Even if I wanted to I couldn't have because I only found out about it barely an hour before you showed up in our lobby. Spitting tacks at the receptionist for doing her job."

"Who's handling the story?"

Sandra sipped again, swirled the wine in her glass. "Juan Navarro. He's lower on the ladder and looking to make a name for himself. This sort of exposé could pull him up the list."

"How much does he know?"

She lifted her gaze to mine, shook her head. "Honestly? Not a heck of a lot, but enough that the editors sat up and took notice. Whomever the source—this guy's connected. And motivated to bring you and Tristan Shade down."

"It was Jim f-cking Verasster." I lifted my drink, my fingers itching to grip crystal and throw. "Son of a b!tch is blackmailing me to step down." I laid out the mess for her, the entire sordid conversation—including the devastating one I'd had earlier with Shade. And I as I spoke, I saw her features soften. Not with pity, but understanding. Regret.

At my side, Sandra sighed heavily, set her forearms to the table-top. "I never like the bastard. Verraster always struck me as a real jerk-off."

I snorted at that, tossing a muttered curse.

"I'm sorry about Tristan. That's got to hurt. I know you care a great deal about him."

I wanted to brush it all off with a laugh and some flippant remark about how there were more fish in the sea or some stupid nonsense, but the truth was I couldn't lie. Not about this. Not about him. So instead I said nothing.

"How long till Jim blows the whistle?"

"He's graciously provided me until Wednesday morning once he's gallantly saved the day with Nishi."

"And you have no clue what he has planned?"

"Nein." Sandra popped a little straighter at that, a look stealing across her face that was enough to distract me from my wallowing pity party. "What?"

"Nothing. I just...like I said, he's a bastard. And bastards usually have pretty dodgy skeletons in their closets."

"Go on."

Sandra swung conspiratorial eyes to mine. "I assume you can get your hands on five thousand dollars without much to-do?"

A lot of money, to be sure, but money was something I had plenty of. "Sure. Why?"

"A hunch. How long until Jim's little plan goes all Skynet?"

Sighing heavily, I cocked my wrist. "Twenty-one hours and counting."

"Good. I can work with that." Rising, Sandra plucked up her purse, found her phone. "Stay here. Order us the hand cut papparadelle—trust me, it's heavenly—I need to call in a few favours."