She looked at me over the rim of her reading glasses.

“Conrad Harrow will not take this lying down,” she said. “He will see this as an attack on his entire empire.”

“Let him,” I said. “He can fight the government. I only want my daughter.”

We waited in silence.

The minutes ticked by on the minimalist silver clock on the wall.

Sienna kept her eyes on her lap, her knuckles white.

I watched the street lamps flicker on in the dusk below, casting yellow pools on the wet asphalt.

Precisely twenty-eight minutes later, the heavy glass doors of the reception area clicked open.

I heard the receptionist’s polite voice, followed by the heavy, hurried footsteps of a man who refused to wait.

The door to the conference room swung open.

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

His tie was slightly crooked, and his hair, usually styled back, clung to his forehead in damp strands.

He looked at me, then at Sienna, his eyes narrowing.

“You backstabbing little b—” he began, stepping toward Sienna.