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Chapter One: The Summons
The email arrives at 7:47 PM, just as I'm shutting down my computer for the night.
FROM: Dominic Ashford
SUBJECT: My office. Now.
BODY: [blank]
My stomach drops. In the eighteen months I've worked at Ashford Industries, I've never received a direct communication from the CEO. No one has. Dominic Ashford doesn't send emails to analysts three levels below him in the corporate hierarchy. He doesn't acknowledge our existence at all.
I stare at the message, my cursor hovering over the delete button like maybe if I pretend I never saw it, this won't be happening. But the read receipt has already been sent. He knows I've seen it.
"Fuck," I whisper to my empty cubicle.
Around me, the forty-second floor is nearly deserted. The other analysts left hours ago, but I've been buried in the Meridian merger documents, trying to find the discrepancy that's been nagging at me for weeks. Something in the numbers doesn't add up, and I can't let it go.
Maybe that's why he's summoning me.
Maybe I've found something I wasn't supposed to find.
My hands shake as I grab my blazer from the back of my chair. The elevator ride to the sixty-fifth floor—the executive level—feels like ascending to my own execution. The polished steel walls reflect my image back at me: too-sharp cheekbones from skipped lunches, dark circles under my eyes from late nights exactly like this one, black hair escaping from what was once a neat bun.
I look exhausted. I look afraid.
I am afraid.
The executive floor is silent when I step out. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Manhattan skyline, the city glittering below us like scattered diamonds on black velvet. My heels click against marble as I walk the long corridor to the corner office.
The double doors stand open.
I hesitate at the threshold, taking in the space I've only ever seen in company newsletters. It's exactly what you'd expect from a man like Dominic Ashford—all clean lines and brutal minimalism, expensive without being ostentatious. The desk is a slab of black walnut that probably cost more than my annual salary. Behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a painting.
And standing at those windows, silhouetted against the lights, is the man himself.
"Close the door."
His voice is low, controlled, and it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I step inside and push the heavy doors shut. The click of the latch feels final.
"Mr. Ashford," I begin, trying to keep my voice steady. "You wanted to—"
"Come here."
It's not a request.
I cross the expanse of carpet, acutely aware of every step, every breath, every thundering beat of my heart. When I'm ten feet away, he turns.
I've seen Dominic ...
Isabella Crane left behind the high-stakes world of corporate law in Manhattan to pursue her true passion: writing the stories that kept her up at night. After her divorce at 40, she rediscovered her own desires and began crafting the dark, powerful romances she'd always craved but rarely found. Now writing full-time from her loft overlooking the Hudson River, Isabella creates stories where power meets passion, and surrender becomes freedom. Her background in law brings authenticity to her billionaire heroes and corporate settings, while her personal journey informs the emotional depth her readers cherish.
