The taxi pulled up to the gleaming glass tower of Shelton Industries, its reflective surface a flat, steely gray under the overcast sky. Miranda Holden stepped out, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses despite the overcast day. Her heart felt like shattered glass in her chest, each breath pushing the shards deeper.
"Keep the change," she murmured, handing the driver a twenty.
She hadn't planned to come to the office. Home wasn't an option—not that house, not anymore—and the thought of sitting alone in some hotel room made her chest constrict painfully. Work had always been her sanctuary. Even on weekends. Even after a red-eye flight from Chicago.
Even after finding her fiancé buried inside her cousin.
Her phone buzzed again—the fifteenth call from Ryan in thirty minutes. Miranda silenced it without looking and pushed through the revolving doors.
Lacey, the lobby receptionist, looked up with her usual smile, which quickly faded when she took in Miranda's appearance.
"Ms. Holden? I thought you were in Chicago until tomorrow."
"Change of plans." Miranda set her carry-on and briefcase beside the security desk. "Could you watch these for me? I'll collect them later."
Lacey's eyes flickered back to Miranda's face. To her credit, she simply nodded. "Of course."
In the elevator, Miranda removed her sunglasses, wincing at her reflection in the polished doors. Her eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged despite her best efforts in the airport bathroom. She looked exactly like what she was—a woman whose life had just imploded.
The executive floor was quiet when she arrived. Saturday afternoons at Shelton Industries were typically deserted—one of the reasons she'd chosen to come here.
Clara, the floor's receptionist, glanced up from her computer. "Miranda! I didn't expect to see you today."
"Just catching up on some work." Miranda attempted a smile that felt like cracking glass. "Is Mr. Shelton in?"
"No, he had meetings downtown all morning. I don't expect him back today."
Perfect. Miranda nodded and made her way to her office, directly adjacent to Nolan Shelton's corner suite. As his executive secretary, she maintained the barrier between him and the rest of the world—a position that required efficiency, discretion, and an immunity to intimidation. Nolan Shelton was brilliant, demanding, and known for his cutting remarks and impossible standards.
He was also, at this moment, blessedly absent.
Miranda dropped her purse on her desk, then stood still, suddenly directionless. The thought of sitting in her sterile office made her throat constrict. What was she supposed to do now? Organize files? Answer emails? Pretend the foundation of her personal life hadn't just disintegrated?
Without conscious decision, she found herself opening the door to Nolan's office.
The vast corner suite smelled of leather and sandalwood, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. Miranda had been in this space hundreds of times—taking notes, delivering reports, arranging his schedule—but never without purpose, and never alone.
She moved to the bar cart tucked discreetly in the corner. Nolan Shelton kept an impressive selection of liquor, primarily for entertaining clients. His personal preference was a thirty-year-old scotch that cost more than Miranda's monthly rent.
She didn't hesitate. She grabbed the crystal decanter and a tumbler, carried them to the leather sofa that faced the cityscape, and poured herself a generous three fingers.
The scotch burned like liquid fire going down, but the second swallow was smoother. By the third, a pleasant numbness began spreading through her limbs.
Miranda kicked off her heels and tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa. Another drink. Then another. The skyline blurred as tears filled her eyes again.
"So many years," she whispered to the empty room. "So many fucking years."
She and Ryan had met in college—her serious to his charming, her driven to his easygoing. He'd pursued her relentlessly until she gave in. For years, she'd believed they balanced each other perfectly.
What a fool she'd been.
Her phone buzzed again. Ryan. She silenced it and took another burning swallow.
Suzanne. Her own cousin. The girl who'd been the spoiled princess while Miranda and her sisters scraped by after their parents' deaths. Uncle March and Aunt Gra had taken them in, but the message had always been clear—the Holden sisters were charity cases, expected to earn their keep while Suzanne was showered with everything she wanted.
And apparently, what Suzanne wanted was Ryan.
The phone on Nolan's desk rang, startling Miranda from her bitter thoughts. She ignored it, but after six rings, some professional instinct made her rise unsteadily to her feet.
"Shelton Industries," she answered, her voice surprisingly steady despite the alcohol swimming through her system.
"Nolan?" The female voice was breathy, almost whiny. "I've been trying your cell."
Miranda's jaw tightened. Luna Malcolm. She'd seen the woman's name in Nolan's calendar often enough to know she was his current mistress. Under normal circumstances, Miranda would have politely taken a message.
These were not normal circumstances.
"He's not available," Miranda said, leaning heavily against the desk. "And he won't be returning your calls."
"Excuse me?" Luna's voice rose an octave. "Who is this?"
"Someone doing you a favor." The scotch had loosened Miranda's tongue dangerously. "He's done with you. Moving on. Find someone else to warm your bed."
"How dare you—"
"I'll tell him you called," Miranda cut in sweetly, then hung up.
She stumbled back to the sofa, laughing mirthlessly. At least she wasn't the only woman being discarded this weekend. Nolan Shelton went through women like other men went through socks. The difference was, his women knew the score from the beginning. No pretense of forever. No fake promises of fidelity.
Maybe that was smarter than what she'd done—believing in love, in commitment, in building a life together. Maybe men like Ryan and Nolan were all the same underneath; Nolan was just honest about it.
The decanter was half-empty now, and Miranda's thoughts had turned hazier, darker. She thought of her sister Collins—brilliant, beautiful Collins—visibly pregnant and abandoned by the baby's father. Another man who'd made promises he never intended to keep.
Connor De Romano. Just the name made Miranda's blood boil. The tech billionaire had left Collins broken, though her sister never spoke about exactly what happened between them.
Miranda would call Collins tomorrow. And Noelle, her fiery younger sister, currently working overseas. They were her real family. They would help her pick up the pieces, find a new place to live. They would understand the betrayal in a way no one else could.
"Having fun?"
The deep voice from the doorway froze Miranda mid-swallow. She lowered the tumbler slowly, meeting Nolan Shelton's stormy gray eyes across the room.
He stood motionless, his tall frame silhouetted against the doorway, expression unreadable. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it—the only crack in his usually impeccable appearance.
Miranda knew she should stand, should apologize, should feel mortified. Instead, she raised her glass in a mocking toast.
"Absolutely," she replied, her voice husky from the alcohol. "Your scotch is excellent. Almost worth what you paid for it."
Nolan's eyes narrowed as he stalked toward her, movements predatory and controlled. Without a word, he plucked the glass from her fingers and set it on the coffee table, then took the decanter and returned it to the bar cart.
"You're drunk," he stated flatly, turning back to face her.
"Astute observation." Miranda knew she was committing career suicide, but couldn't seem to stop herself. "That's why they pay you the big bucks."
A muscle twitched in Nolan's jaw. In her several years working for him, Miranda had never spoken to him with anything less than perfect professional respect. Even when he was at his most demanding, most unreasonable, she'd maintained her composure.
That composure had shattered along with her heart.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "A rich, entitled asshole who thinks the world exists to serve him."
She expected anger. Expected to be fired on the spot. Instead, Nolan studied her face for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then, inexplicably, he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her.
"Tell me what happened," he said quietly.
The unexpected gentleness in his voice undid her more effectively than any reprimand. Miranda felt tears welling up again and turned her face away, determined not to cry in front of her boss—one humiliation too many for such a short time.
"Nothing worth discussing," she managed.
"Miranda." Her name on his lips was different somehow—softer than she'd ever heard it. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, she turned to face him. In the fading afternoon light, his gray eyes seemed darker, intense in a way that made her breath catch. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made her head swim more than the scotch.
"Tell me," he repeated, "who hurt you."
And Miranda, who prided herself on her control, felt the last of her defenses crumble beneath the weight of his unexpected concern.