I take gulping breaths and stagger through the maze of cubicles on the third floor. The sense of betrayal weighs heavy on my chest. In the restroom, I splash my face with cool water. My eyes are blotchy and swollen, my cheeks flush. A rash creeps up the side of my neck.

I dig into my bag until I find my compact. I apply powder along my neck, deadening the redness—but it does nothing to quench my anger. I stare at the white ghost of my reflection. Too much powder. I yank off a piece of paper towel and madly swipe at my skin.

Breathe, Hailey.

Think.

I inhale and hold the breath, allowing it to center me.

Jake isn’t the most observant man in the world, but Forrest will take one look at me and know something is wrong.

What the hell am I going to say?

I’ll just have to be honest. Tell him I negotiated us into the worst deal ever.

I straighten my spine and stride to our shared office, avoiding eye contact with the other—real—employees at Kingston Industries as I go, carefully holding my emotions in check. But as soon as I step into our office, the tight knot in my chest slides downward, creating a flutter around my heart, and a stream of fresh tears.

Forrest looks up from his laptop. “Hailey?”

I slump on the couch and sob, my throat growing raw under the release of hurt and anger. It’s more than Duke’s indifference to the MicroTracker, I’m mortified at my uncharacteristic behavior, for letting him get under my skin—and under my skirt. My shoulders rise and fall.

Forrest scrambles to my side and rests his firm hand on my back. “What the hell happened?”

I glance up at him through hooded lashes. “Mr. Kingston doesn’t plan to do anything with the MicroTracker. The project’s dead. Buried.”

Forrest’s forehead creases. “You mean he’s just going to let the technology fade away?”

I nod, face tight with dried tears. “Yep. Until someone else comes along and does it anyway.”

“But we still have jobs, right?”

I snag a piece of tissue from the dispenser on the coffee table and dab at my eyes. “I guess so. As long as you’re fine with getting paid to troll the internet.”

Forrest shrugs. “Whatever. Still getting a paycheck.”

“And that’s all that matters?”

The project that has consumed three years of our lives is…dead. Finished. How can Forrest be okay with that? Not to mention that now we’re stuck working for a tyrant who will stoop to any level for control. Even if it means fucking over his employees. Literally. Oh, God. Mortification nestles deep in my bones. I want to shrivel into the couch and forget I ever laid eyes on Duke Kingston.

I can’t even look at Forrest.

“We made money, Hailey.” He squeezes my arm with reassurance. “Good money. So what if we sit around the next three years chatting on forums and watching cat videos on YouTube? We’re still making bank, and when the contract’s done, we move on to greener pastures.”

I scoff. “That’s not enough for me. And frankly, I’m surprised it is for you.”

“Relax,” Forrest says. “No need to get so worked up over this. Kingston Industries bought the product. It’s Duke’s baby now. Let him trash it if he wants. Jake will say the same thing, you’ll see.”

“I’m not convinced,” I say, voice as flat as a dial tone. I glance across the room at Jake’s empty work station, then at the clock. It’s not even noon. “Jake take an early lunch?”

“He got in an argument with Marissa over the phone,” Forrest says, with a heavy sigh. “It was pretty heated, so I left the room. He was gone went I got back.”

I dig my cell out of my purse and dial Jake’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. “Damn it.”

I gather my purse and stand. “I’m going for a bite to eat. Clear my head a little.”

Which isn’t entirely the truth. Downstairs, I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me to Jake’s apartment. Maybe Forrest is content to sit on his ass for $100,000 a year, but that’s not the kind of work ethic my father instilled in me. With Jake’s support, I plan to find a way to get us out of our contract with Kingston Industries so we’re free to develop a product better than the MicroTracker, a product Duke’s competitors will salivate over.

And that will be the sweetest revenge against the betrayal that sticks to the roof of my mouth like natural peanut butter.

Sure, the plan sounds great, but when I get to Jake’s house, he isn’t home, which takes some of the motivational wind out of my sails. I try his cell again. Still no answer. I type in Marissa’s number, then decide against calling.

Not knowing exactly what the situation is with the two of them, I decide that discretion is the better part of valor for the moment.

I consider calling my father, but I’m not yet ready to admit defeat. He’d advise me to keep quiet, go to work, get paid. That’s not enough for me. I didn’t bust ass at college to take some token position at Kingston Industries.

I hop on the bus and hit up the Cook County Law Library. Cool air nips at my skin as I walk from the station and into the warmth of the building where the musky scent of paper and ink assaults. I scroll through the shelves looking for a business law reference guide of some kind. My stomach churns with unease. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades thanks to bright fluorescent overheads that feel like spotlights on my skin. I’m hot, clammy, and increasingly growing frustrated as I flip through the books, each reminding me of my inadequacies—I’m no lawyer.

I sound out words that require a different kind of degree to decipher. Use Google to supplement what isn’t in stock. I still don’t understand my rights or whether there’s a loophole in Duke’s contracts.

The swell of anger I’d worked to quell begins to rise again. Damn Duke for putting us in the position. And damn me for allowing it. I slam the book shut with a curse. Screw it. If these resources can’t help me, I’ll go straight to the source. I’ll pull on my big girl panties and confront Duke, and demand that he release us from our contract.

At this point, what do I have to lose?