“You are too late, Evelyn,” Sloane said.

She leaned back in my leather chair, resting her manicured fingers on the armrests.

The screen behind her flickered, the progress bar jumping to ninety-two percent.

“Get out of my chair,” I said.

I stepped forward, my boots clicking on the hardwood border of the rug.

The office smelled of Sloane’s expensive lavender perfume, a sharp scent that made my throat tighten.

“This isn’t your office anymore,” Sloane said.

She pointed a long, silver-nailed finger at the monitor.

“And soon, those won’t be your designs.”

I lunged toward the keyboard, reaching for the mouse to cancel the command.

Sloane grabbed my wrist.

Her grip was surprisingly tight, her fingernails digging into my skin.

“Don’t touch it,” she whispered.

I pulled my hand back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The progress bar read ninety-four percent.

“You can’t delete the archive,” I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts to keep it steady.

“Those files are backed up on the local server in the next room.”

Sloane smiled, showing her white, even teeth.

“They were,” she said.