Diane Cho immediately stepped in front of me, her leather briefcase held like a shield.

The door opened just wide enough for Lila Monroe to slip through.

She pressed her back against the wood, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her silk dress.

Her blonde hair, usually styled in perfect beach waves, was damp at the temples.

“Vivian,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Miss Monroe,” Diane said, her voice cold and level.

“I need five minutes,” Lila said, looking past Diane straight at me. “Just five.”

She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the gold handle of her designer clutch.

“We have nothing to discuss,” Diane said, taking a half-step forward. “Any communication must go through our legal counsel.”

“Grant is going down,” Lila said, her voice cracking on the name. “He’s going down, and he’s going to drag me with him.”

She took a step closer, her high heels squeaking on the polished hardwood border of the carpet.

“He told me the Maribel project was fully protected,” she said, her eyes wide. “He told me the shell companies were clean.”