My boss invited me to Manhattan’s most dangerous gala because he thought watching his painfully ordinary secretary humiliate herself would entertain a room full of criminals. But when I walked through those ballroom doors, the laughter never came, because the woman they’d spent three years overlooking had finally decided to stop hiding.

Monday morning at 8:15 AM, the forty-second-floor executive offices of Vance & Steves Enterprises looked entirely different.

The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, illuminating the polished marble floors of the reception area. The nervous, suffocating tension that usually hung over the cubicles was gone, replaced by an electric, buzzing anticipation.

I stepped out of the private elevator wearing a charcoal-gray tailored pantsuit, a crisp white silk blouse, and Louboutin heels that clicked sharply against the marble with the authority of a general walking across a conquered battlefield. My espresso-colored hair was styled into a razor-sharp bob, and my lips carried the same lethal shade of blood-red lipstick I had worn to the Solstice Gala.

As I walked past the open-plan bullpen, the junior accountants and administrative assistants froze in their tracks, staring at me with a mixture of absolute shock and newfound terror. Word had already leaked through the internal grapevine about what had happened at the gala—how the mousy little secretary had stood up to Vincent Delgado, insulted Marcus Vance, and walked out of the ballroom hand-in-hand with Larkin Steves.

I didn't look at them. I kept my head high, walking straight toward the executive corner offices.

As I approached my old cubicle, I saw Thomas Steves standing there.

He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his designer tie was crooked, and he was violently shoving a cardboard box full of personal items—cheap desk toys, framed pictures of his sports cars, and half-empty bottles of whiskey—across his desk.

When he saw me walking toward him, his face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer.

"You think you’ve won, don't you, you pathetic little gold-digger?" Thomas snarled, his voice echoing loudly enough to draw the attention of the entire floor. "Larkin is just using you! A month from now, he’ll toss you out on the street just like every other piece of trash he steps on!"

I stopped two feet away from him, slipping my hands into the pockets of my tailored trousers, looking down at him with quiet, chilling amusement.

"Maybe he will, Thomas," I said smoothly. "But unlike you, I’ll be leaving with a corner office, a seven-figure salary, and your entire stock portfolio, which Larkin transferred to my name this morning as part of your severance package."

Thomas went green. "You... you did what?"

"Check your brokerage account," I replied, stepping past him toward the double doors of the executive suite. "Oh, and Thomas? Security is waiting by the elevators. Don't forget to take your empty whiskey bottles with you. We have a professional standard to maintain here now."

"I'll destroy you!" Thomas screamed, lunging forward with his fists raised.

Before he could take two steps, two massive corporate security guards materialized out of nowhere, grabbing Thomas firmly by the shoulders and wrenching him backward.

"Let me go! Do you know who I am?! I am a Steves!" Thomas thrashed wildly as they dragged him down the hallway toward the elevators.

I didn't even turn around to watch him go. I pushed open the heavy glass doors of Larkin’s executive office and stepped inside.

Larkin was standing by the window, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch, watching the drama unfold in the hallway below. As the doors clicked shut behind me, he turned around, a slow, approving smirk playing on his lips.

"That was cold, Penelope," Larkin noted, taking a sip of his drink.

"That was efficient," I corrected, walking over to the massive mahogany desk—my new desk—and setting my leather briefcase down upon it. I looked up at him, meeting his amber eyes with absolute confidence. "Now, Mr. Steves... let's review the quarterly earnings report. I believe there are several offshore accounts we need to restructure before the federal regulators wake up."

Larkin walked slowly across the room, stopping right beside my chair. He set his glass down on the desk, leaned down, and rested his hands on either side of my armrests, trapping me in the warmth of his gaze.

"You know," Larkin murmured softly, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous purr, "I used to think I was the most dangerous predator in this building."