Read a preview
Chapter 1
Chapter One: First Day, First Strike
Ava Sinclair arrived at seven-thirty sharp, even though her calendar said nine. She wanted the building to meet her on her terms: polished black glass, soaring lobby, the smooth breath of the elevators. This place had been the brass ring for years. Now it was hers—her title stamped in the email signature, her office facing the east river, and her name on a campaign that could redefine her career.
The door to her new floor swished open. She felt the slight buzz of her keycard in her hand, the way a violin note hums under the chest. People had told her the creative department smelled like peppermint and ambition. Today, it smelled like possibility.
Her phone pinged. Meeting at eight. Cross. Boardroom B.
She didn’t need the last name to know who that was. Julian Cross. He was the kind of figure colleagues lowered their voices for: a strategic mind, sharp and exacting, unafraid of a clean cut. He had a reputation for seeing what others missed and expecting his team to keep up. He was also, according to her friend in finance, “disgustingly good with a tie.”
She set down her bag, breathed once, and walked to Boardroom B with her planner hugged tight to her chest. She pushed open the door and found him already there, sleeves rolled, jacket off, a stack of mock-ups spread like a hand of cards across the table. He looked up. His eyes, she realized, were not quite gray. More like the last light before a storm.
“Ava Sinclair,” he said, standing, the corners of his mouth flicking in a smile that didn’t soften the rest of his face. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She crossed the length of the table to shake his hand. His palm was warm and confident. “It’s good to finally be... official.”
“Good,” he said, letting her go. “We’re three weeks out from the Deveraux launch. I promoted you because I need someone who can think on their feet and deliver under pressure. Not because I like your LinkedIn photo.”
“Relieved,” she said. “I’ve always been a better strategist than a selfie.”
He smiled for real then. Slight, controlled, and yet somehow dangerous. “We’ll see.”
The meeting ran forty minutes. He was direct, quick, and precise. He clipped together disparate ideas and held them up to the light. He asked her what she would cut. She told him. He asked where the campaign played soft. She pointed. He challenged her, and she didn’t flinch. When it ended, there was a current humming between them neither of them acknowledged.
As she reached for the storyboard closest to her, he leaned at the same time. Their hands knocked. A low jolt shot up her arm. She pulled back fast.
“Careful,” he said, voice even. “Wouldn’t want to bruise the star.”
“Wouldn’t want to bruise the boss,” she returned, and his mouth curved, as if he liked the taste of the word.
“That would require more than a bump.”
She left the room feeling taller and somehow less steady, as if a skyscraper had shifted half a degree in a strong wind. By noon, he sent a coffee to her desk without comment. She drank it, pretending her pulse wasn’t performing a drumline.
