He wore a charcoal wool coat over a tailored navy suit.

His hair was perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place.

His face was tight with anger.

“Mark,” I said, stopping short.

“We need to talk, Victoria,” he said, his voice a low, harsh whisper.

“I am on shift, Mark. I don’t have time for this.”

I tried to step past him, but he moved to block me again.

“Make time,” he snapped, grabbing my forearm.

His grip was tight and cold.

“Let go of me,” I said, my voice dropping into my quiet, authoritative tone.

He released his grip, but stepped closer, invading my space.

The familiar, heavy scent of his expensive cologne made my stomach turn.

It was the same scent he wore when he told me he was leaving because I couldn’t give him a family.

“I heard what just happened in there,” Mark said, gesturing toward the board room.

“They want you to be the face of the new wing’s campaign.”

“It is a good cause, Mark. The children need that space.”

“I don’t care about the children,” he hissed.