“Carter promised you a share of the company, but there is no company without these designs.”

“Without them, Vale House is just a name on a piece of paper.”

Sloane picked up her designer handbag from the floor.

“Maybe that’s the point,” she said.

She reached for a sleek, silver tablet resting on the corner of the desk.

Before she could grab it, her personal phone on the desk lit up.

It vibrated against the polished mahogany, buzzing loudly.

I glanced down at the screen.

The caller ID showed a name: *Vivian Hartwell*.

Under the name, a text preview popped up.

It read: *Is the Whitaker transition complete? The Boston accounts are ready.*

I stared at the screen, my mind racing.

Whitaker.

Sloane’s last name was Whitaker.

But why would Vivian be texting her about a transition and Boston accounts?

Vivian had always claimed she didn’t know Sloane before Carter brought her in as a consultant.

She had pretended to dislike Sloane in public to keep up appearances.

“Give me that,” Sloane said, her voice losing its calm edge for the first time.