It’s a hellish day for business, so the last thing I need at 5:00 is a surprise.

Of course, that’s what I get.

The knock comes at my door right on time.

“Come in,” I call, the corners of my mouth already turning up into a smile I can’t suppress.

It drops off my mouth the instant the door swings open, because it’s not Cate who comes in with a wickedly sexy expression on her face.

It’s Sandra Sarzó.

Her expression is decidedly unsexy.

Sarzó’s dark hair is swept up meticulously behind her head, and she wears an outfit I’ve come to recognize over my time here: black, fitted, sharp. The pieces change from designer to designer, but the look never does. It must be why she likes Cate to do the same, although I’m almost sure that if Cate had the choice, she wouldn’t wear all black every day, no matter how gorgeous she looks in that color.

“Mr. Hunter,” Sarzó says, crossing the office and coming to a stop in front of my desk.

“Ms. Sarzó,” I say, standing up.

What the hell is going on?

Maybe Sandra has found out about the arrangement between Cate and me. No, that’s unlikely. How would she find out unless Cate told her? An impossible scenario. Aside from that, I’ve been keeping our meetings short, playful…I don’t take her over the desk nearly as often.

I save that for the penthouse, where Cate’s been spending her nights.

She doesn’t keep me in suspense for very long.

“Would you like to sit down?” I ask her, but she plants her feet and straightens her back, shaking her head.

“I won’t be staying long. I’ve come to inform you that your daily meetings with Catherine will no longer be part of her schedule.”

More than anything, this confuses me. Why today? Why this Monday, with the second issue due to be released in less than three weeks? I don’t let a single flicker of emotion show on my face.

“And why is that, Ms. Sarzó?”

“I will require all of Catherine’s time for the foreseeable future.”

“Have you made changes to her duties?”

Sarzó pinches her lips together. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mr. Hunter.”

This time, I let her see a hint of irritation. “I don’t see how it isn’t. Basiqué is ultimately my publication, Ms. Sarzó—mine.”

She seems to get the idea that this isn’t a game. Either that, or she reacted to my dominating tone the way many women—and men—do: by changing tactics.

“Perhaps I should have approached this from another angle,” Sarzó says thoughtfully, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve decided to make the next issue of Basiqué a double issue. It’s unprecedented in the magazine’s history and will make quite a splash. I have no doubt you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

Aha. This is all stemming from the last direct conversation I had with Sandra Sarzó. I’d put the summary of the magazine’s numbers on the desk in front of her and questioned her mercilessly. When she saw them, she didn’t flinch. Those numbers had come as no surprise to her, but as I’m beginning to see, that doesn’t mean she’s given up on course-correcting.

“And,” she continues, “I’ve put several campaigns into place to drive readership and traffic to our website.”

“This kind of change to the editorial schedule is significant.”

It’s not a question, but she confirms it anyway. “Yes. Which is why I won’t be able to spare Catherine. I’ll need her to be available virtually around the clock if these efforts are going to be successful. I have no doubt she’ll rise to the challenge. Her work will be very demanding from here on out. I can’t see returning to our previous publication schedule if this issue succeeds…and I know it will.”

I nod, taking in every word.

My stomach churns with emotions I can’t sort out while Sarzó is standing in front of me. Disgust, for one: she seems not to care at all that Cate is putting her health on the line to excel at this job, and Sarzó is only going to ask her to do more. Cate won’t refuse. I’m anxious, and I hate that flash of nervousness. It tells me I’m not in control, and as much as I think I’m willing to give that up—somewhat—in my love life, I won’t tolerate it in business.

Except I can’t quite tear the two things apart.

“I see. Were there any other updates you wanted to share with me?” I want to shout at this woman, to ask her how she can be so blind, so selfish, but I’m brought back from the brink—that would show her that her decisions are under my skin, and I won’t do that.

“That was all.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Hunter. I’ll keep you apprised of how things proceed.”

“Excellent.”

With that, Sarzó turns on her heel and waltzes out of my office.

She hasn’t been gone five seconds when my cell rings in my pocket.

The name on the Caller ID is the prison where my father lives.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a rush of pity instead of sickening hatred.

And I answer the phone.

“Hello?”

Before my father can speak, I sit through a prerecorded warning about accepting calls from inmates.

“Jax?”

His voice is tired and worn.

“Hello.” I don’t know why he’s calling. More than that, I don’t know why I answered. It’s been years.

“Hello, son. I’m—I’m calling about your mother.”

Ah. “I’m not sure why.”

“Well—” The silences are painfully awkward while he searches for the words. “Someone from her place got in touch with me. In the letter they said she wasn’t doing very well.”

“She isn’t.”

“They said—” Another excruciating pause. “They said she’s been asking for me. That she can’t remember the divorce.”

The urge to rip him to shreds for everything he did still rises in my chest, but it’s somehow softer, more controllable.

Something clicks into place in my mind.

Cate is working herself to death out of a desperation I still don’t entirely understand.

That same motivation, whatever is at the heart of it, is what drove my father to do what he did.

“That’s true,” I tell him.

“So I was…” He’s wary, waiting for me to lash out. “I was thinking, that if you thought it might help her, I could send a few letters. I won’t be out for another year, but I could write.”

I let out a deep breath, and with it goes a large part of the animosity I’ve felt toward him all these years. “I’m sure she’d love that.”

“All right.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Okay. I’ll do that.” There’s noise in the background. “I’ve got to go. Thanks…thanks, Jax.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and slip my phone back into my pocket.

She might hate me for it, but I’m getting Cate out of this job before it kills her.