“While the outcry from the Internet has been immediate and outraged, so far, there has been no official response from either Goldstone the company or Thomas Goldstone himself.”

I shake my head as the video plays again behind the voiceover. It’s the fifth time I’ve watched it this morning, and each time, I wince.

It’s a video, taken from the hallway outside my office.

At first, the visual isn’t too damning, but you can hear the yelling, cursing, and hurled insults, all obviously my voice. You can clearly hear every word of my family’s dirty laundry as I scream about my mother’s suicide and wish my father dead.

And then the door opens, showing me physically shoving him out the door. I look mad, crazy-eyed and red-faced. In the background of the image, you can see Mia’s pale face, horror written plainly in her expression. Then more closed-door yelling, and the crash as I throw the gift box against the window. But without knowing about the box, the shatter of glass sounds ominous, especially when a moment later, you hear a solid thunk against door. And then Mia runs through the video frame, holding her head with curled-in shoulders and runny mascara tears streaking down her cheeks.

“That’s enough.”

Irene Castellanos, my head of public relations, hits the pause button on the remote, and the video stops. “Someone’s already pieced together a story about Mia, calling her your ‘basement babe’ and speculating on your relationship. I’ll be honest, Thomas. The way they put this whole thing together, it looks like you were out of control and hit her.”

“But I didn’t!” I argue for the millionth time, rubbing at my eyes. I didn’t sleep at all last night and I feel like sand’s been poured behind my eyeballs.

Deep breaths . . . just deep breaths.

That’s what I’d told myself when Mia ran out. Calm, breathe . . .over and over like a mantra. Dr. Perry would’ve been proud. Well, except for the raging tantrum I’d thrown. But I’d calmed, or more like collapsed like a deflated balloon, when I’d seen just how far I’d gone.

The news had broken by six, like the network had just been waiting for a chance to throw me under the bus. They aired it first with a lot of speculation and started asking leading questions later. And there have been a lot of them, because the phone calls demanding interviews have been coming in non-stop.

And now they all know what a fuckup you are. Can’t hide now!

The voice in my head is gleeful as fuck, dancing around like it’s won the lottery of fucking me over. At this point, I guess that’s true. Everything’s a mess . . . me and Mia, my company, my head.

Irene clears her throat, yanking me from my downward mental spiral.

“Sorry, Irene. You’re right, but that isn’t what happened. I was yelling at my father . . . for the most part. We have history.”

“Yeah, I know. I heard. Everyone knows that now, if they didn’t already. Too bad your father so far isn’t willing to make a corroborating statement on that,” Irene replies, tapping at the notepad in her lap. “I’ve reached out to him twice since I learned about this, and he’s sticking with ‘no comment’ like I’m a member of the fucking press too.”

That Irene cusses tells me just how bad this is. She’s a consummate pro, experienced, and has pretty much seen it all. And she’s losing her shit. That doesn’t bode well for me.

A sudden thought goes through me, and I realize how exhausted I am that I didn’t think of it earlier. “Have we found out who sent the video to the news? There’s got to be a trail there.”

Irene opens her mouth, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t think of that. I’ve been handling the PR side, trying to squash it, not track down where they got it since it’s obviously real.”

“Hold on that,” I say, heaving myself to my feet and stepping out of my office. Kerry’s frantic at her desk, talking with someone on the phone while typing furiously, and she’s refused to even look at me all morning. I don’t blame her. I haven’t been able to look at myself all morning either.

But right now, I have something I need to find. “Kerry, I need you to call Smithson Security. Have their best investigator here today. If they can’t come, see if they can recommend someone who can. And Kerry, be discreet, please.”

If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man where I’m standing. “Yes, Mr. Goldstone.”

I don’t have time for this, but I stand directly in front of her, giving her a hard look. “Kerry, I’m only going to say this once, so listen closely.” I can see her bracing herself, ready to be put on blast, or worse. “I didn’t hurt Mia. Yes, I lost my temper, but I didn’t lay a hand on her.”

Her face softens a degree or two, but she’s still not happy with me. “Shit, Thomas. What the hell is going on around here?”

Irene clears her throat, interrupting. “Actually, Kerry. You weren’t here when all this was going down, correct?”

Kerry turns a frosty glare to Irene, and I intervene, holding up a hand. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything. But you were gone when I came into the office. Did you know Dennis and Mia were here?”

She nods, looking pained. “I did. I asked Mia if she knew what she was doing, and she said she hoped so.”

I swallow thickly. “Okay, so when you left, did you see anything suspicious? Maybe someone up here who shouldn’t have been?”

Though I can see her racking her brain, she’s already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see anyone. I just headed out for my daughter’s recital. I rode the elevator down with a bunch of folks, I don’t know who, and then walked out the front door. I waved at Michael, the security guard, and then caught a cab. I didn’t know about this until late last night because I had my phone on silent while Cami danced. I’m afraid I’m no help.”

I pat her hand, and she grabs mine, holding on tightly. “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

I grimace. I scared Kerry, angered her, hurt her trust in me, and I never should have. She’s been the one person I could always trust before Mia . . . and I’ll make it up to her.

“It’s okay. Can you just call Smithson? I really need someone here, pronto.”

“On it,” she says, grabbing her phone and clicking around on her computer to get the number.

Irene gestures for me to come back into my office and shuts the door as I sit back down. “Okay, so what’s the fallout here?”

“So far?” Irene asks, picking up her notepad she’d left on my desk before. “Well, Goldstone, both you and the company, have been condemned by every women’s rights group from NOW to LOLA.”

“What’s LOLA?” I mutter.

“Ladies of Liberty Alliance . . . yeah, I had to look them up myself,” Irene admits. “If you could see the sidewalk from up here, you’d find a group of marchers downstairs right now on the sidewalk protesting. I don’t know what group they’re from except that they’re pretty much calling for you to finish breaking that window, preferably with your head, before you go falling to the street below.”

The window. Turning around, I look at the Y-shaped crack, haunted by my rage. The gift had ended up being a photo cube, of all things, with pictures of my parents and me when things were happy embedded on each side. I didn’t even know those pictures existed and certainly wouldn’t have thought Dennis had saved them all these years. And last night when I’d finally opened the box, alone in my office in the ruined tatters of my life, the pictures had seemed more of a taunt than anything healing.

See what you did? If only you’d helped her, this is the life you could’ve led. But look at you now . . . broken and alone.

That’s what the demon had said on repeat last night, and I shake my head, not wanting an encore performance of the vitriol.

“What else?”

“Well, your net worth is highly tied to Goldstone stock . . . and it’s down ten points so far today. So you’ve lost a significant amount of money. Probably a millionaire instead of a billionaire today.” It’s a hollow attempt at a joke, both of us knowing I couldn’t care less about money right now.

I shrug, not giving a shit. For once, business success isn’t foremost in my mind. “Forget Wall Street. How’s it affecting the company?”

Irene sighs. “So far, not too badly. There’s an uptick in callouts. Some in protest, some because they don’t want to cross the crowd below. Most of them just opted to work from home for the day, so it’s not like anyone is hair-flipping out. I told HR not to say or do anything about it until you gave a directive. I’d suggest letting it slide . . . especially in Mia Karakova’s case.”

Mentioning Mia hurts, and I look out the window toward her apartment across the city. The simple fact is, I chased her away. She hasn’t returned my calls and has ignored my texts, and I’d called down to her manager, Bill, this morning to see if she’d come in. He’d carefully said she called in ‘sick’ and I’d heard the questions in his voice. I’m not sure if I’m going to ever get her back.

“Agreed,” I whisper. “Nobody gets punished for my fuckup, understood?”

My door opens, and Randall Towlee pokes his head in. Like I don’t have enough problems to deal with. “Thomas, got a moment?”

I wave him in, sighing. More good news. “Sure, invite everyone in while you’re at it. We can get to the execution faster that way. Sorry . . . what’s on your mind?”

“Not to pile on, but I just forwarded you an email from the hospital project liaison. Basic idea is that they’re cutting ties with Goldstone until this is resolved. There’s some verbiage about negative public image, but they’re basically running scared.”

I sigh. Of course. “It’s fine. I’ll reach out to them.”

“One other thing.” Looking like he’d rather be anywhere than passing along the news he’s got, he says, “The Board has called a meeting to discuss your behavior and the news coverage. Rumor is, they’re concerned you’ve broken your own corporate bylaws.”

I nod, exhaustion hitting me like a wave. “Tell them . . . tomorrow.”

“They may not want to wait that long, Thomas,” he says. “The damage to our corporate image—”

“Can wait at least twenty-four hours,” I reply. “Tell them tomorrow, noon, conference room. Thank you.”

He leaves, and I look at Irene. “I’m putting you in charge of that. Develop a plan to get ahead of the news cycle. I put us in a nosedive, but I’m going to need you to pull us out.”

“That’ll need you, Thomas,” she says. “I can develop a plan, and I can be the corporate press presence, but to really change things around, the public’s going to demand that you do it. Personally, and probably in public, to let them get their pound of flesh from you.”

I nod, but I’m too tired. I’m shaken. For the first time in a long time, I actually do feel weak.

“I know,” I whisper, heaving myself to my feet. “But not right this moment. You’re in charge of that. I know you can pull magic out. If you need me, call Kerry.”

I leave the office, point up, and Kerry nods. She’ll screen things for me, but right now, I can’t handle it. Instead I leave, each step feeling like I’ve aged fifty years in a single day.

As I enter my living room, something out of place catches my eye, pink and white, and I walk over to tug a T-shirt out from under the edge of my sofa.

I remember this. Mia wore it the last weekend she stayed over. I’d peeled it off her before we made love on the couch, and afterward, we’d soaked in the tub before making love in the bedroom. I guess in all the passion, we just sort of forgot where our clothes ended up.

My eyes burn, and I lift the shirt to my nose, inhaling that soft scent that’s unmistakably Mia. She’s not someone for perfumes, nothing eye-watering, just her natural scent that’s honest, pure . . . and I’ve hurt her.

I feel wetness run down my cheeks and it isn’t tears of rage or shame, it isn’t sweat or chopping onions. I can’t stop seeing the terrified look on Mia’s face from the video.

I hurt the woman I love.

How am I supposed to recover from that? How am I supposed to move forward?

Out of everything I’ve lost today, she’s the most important thing and what I cherish most.

For the first time in years, I don’t know what to do, so I lay on the sofa, holding Mia’s shirt to my chest while I cry myself to sleep.