Grant stood in the doorway, his expensive wool coat dark with rain.

His tie was slightly crooked, and his chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Amelia,” he said, taking a step toward me.

Naomi stood up immediately, her hand flat on her desk.

“Mr. Harrow, you are not permitted to be here,” Naomi said, her voice dropping to a low, authoritative register. “You must leave.”

Grant ignored her, keeping his bloodshot eyes locked on mine.

“Amelia, please,” he said, his voice softening into the familiar, pleading tone he used whenever he wanted to charm his way out of trouble. “We need to talk. Just the two of us. We can fix this.”

He looked older, the stress showing in the deep lines around his mouth and the shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“There is nothing to talk about, Grant,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady.

“You don’t understand,” he said, taking another step. “The board is looking at the third-quarter numbers for the development project. If there is even a whisper of a divorce, it affects the family stock.”