“I just need that big, beautiful signature of yours on the dotted line, and these deals are final.” My lawyer, one Penelope Drake, flips through a few other pages. “And on pages seven, and nine.” She sits ramrod straight in the client’s seat across my desk from me, her red hair in an impeccable bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes display only the slightest hint of nervousness.

I’m impressed.

“You had Mark Hudson reevaluate those details?” I pick up the first contract from the top of the pile and scan it one more time.

“Absolutely. The terms now match your exact specifications.” I hired Penelope from the newly expanded Grant and Associates to negotiate this expansion, and I have not been disappointed. Juliet Grant might have started out relatively small—at least for New York City—but her firm is a powerhouse now. I took a chance with them, and it’s paid off. Women have to stick together.

Especially when men are such unholy assholes.

I keep the scowl off my face and force myself to triple-check the contracts one more time. The last thing on Earth I’m going to do now is let my ex throw me off my game.

He could never play at my level anyway.

Penelope has a better poker face than my financial adviser, Bernadette, who looks like she might stroke out at any moment. She presses her fingertips to her lips. It’s not enough to keep the words in.

“Isa, I have to remind you—”

“I know, Bernadette.”

“It’s my duty to remind you, one more time, before you sign these, that—”

I fold my hands over the contracts and look across the desk at her. “That this is a short-term risk involving my business capital.”

“And personal capital. It’s a massive risk, Isa. If anything goes wrong—”

“Bernadette,” I say, keeping my tone as soothing as possible. Bernadette has been with me since I rented two racks in the corner of a boutique a block down from my shitty studio apartment. I was eighteen. “I love you dearly. But this is a risk I can afford to take.”

She takes in one more breath through her nose. “Now. You can afford it now.”

“I get it, Bernie. I really do.”

I pick up a pen on my desk, testing its weight in my hand before I undo the cap. Penelope holds her breath.

I steady myself, check all the small details a final time, then sign my name with a flourish. All nine times.

When I’m finished, Penelope doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief—to her credit. She just beams at me across the desk, and even Bernadette gives me a smile. “Congratulations, Isabella.” The name still sounds awkward in her mouth, even though I asked her after two weeks to please stop calling me Ms. Gabriel. Most people—at least those who have to hear from me as often as my lawyer does—call me Isa, but I’ve had no luck convincing her of that.

“On to bigger and better things,” I say. We all stand up, and Penelope sweeps the contracts into a file folder and tucks it into the briefcase she always carries with her.

“The new stores will be a hit.” She extends her hand across the desk for me to shake. “I’m looking forward to hearing how everything goes.”

Buying three storefronts is only the beginning. “Oh, you will,” I promise.

Bernadette nods at me, pride shining in her eyes. Once a decision is made, she always gets on board. “Good for you, sweetheart.”

She disappears through the door just behind Penelope. I wait until I hear the elevator doors slide closed behind them before I pull the bottle of champagne from my mini-fridge, along with a single fluted glass.

That’s all I need.

I let myself grin a little while I pop the cork and pour into the glass, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. This feels amazing. I sure as hell couldn’t afford champagne back when I first started this business, borrowing my mother’s sewing machine, working in the hallway of the cramped one-bedroom in the Bronx. There wasn’t room for the machine and the tiny table it sat on anywhere else in the apartment—not with all three of us sharing the bedroom, my mom and sister in one bed, me in a twin bed, a foot of space the only gap between them.

So Jason was a dick. That doesn’t make me want to celebrate less. He almost had me, too—I was ready to put his ring on my finger, so damn head over heels that I almost, almost, was willing to marry that bastard without a prenup.

“Be done with him,” I command myself. Time to get him out of my head.

I lift the champagne glass and close my eyes. I never thought I’d get this far. I never thought I’d be selling my clothes in storefronts all over Manhattan. 

And as of today, I’m going statewide.

A thrill goes down my spine, along with yet another jolt of adrenaline. I’m not about to let Bernadette be right with all her doomsday predictions.

My office seems bathed in a new light when I open my eyes. The clouds that rolled over Manhattan earlier this morning must have cleared. It’s too bad. I love a good storm.

I raise my glass, silently toasting the picture of my fourteen-year-old self, hunched over the sewing machine in the light of a single lamp. I’m not looking at the camera. My skinny frame is totally absorbed in the piece I’m sewing. “We’ve come a long way.”

My phone rings, the ringtone loud and insistent, scaring the shit out of me. I was looking forward to the bubbly sweetness of the champagne, the glass halfway to my lips, but it shakes in my hand as I scramble for the phone.

“Isabella Gabriel,” I answer. There’s a muffled sob from the other end of the line, and my stomach turns over. “Mom?”

“Isa?”

“What’s wrong?” I put the champagne flute down on the desk, and it rattles in place. “Mom, talk to me.” If she’s crying this hard, it has to be terrible news. “Is Evie okay? What’s going on?” A thousand possibilities tumble through my mind, each worse than the last. More sobbing. “Mom. Mom. Take a deep breath.”

She takes a long, shuddering breath. “I got—I got a notice.”

What the hell? “What kind of notice? I don’t understand, Mom.”

“A notice that—that all the leases are being terminated. We’re not going to be allowed to renew at the end of August.”

“The lease on your apartment?” She’s been living in the same building in Hamilton Heights since I was nineteen. There’s no way they’re kicking her out. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s been bought.” A hot spike of anger cuts straight through my gut. There’s a crinkle of paper, like she’s smoothing it out in her hands. “A developer, I think.” She chokes up again. “Isa, everybody has to go. Where am I going to go?”

If I know anything about New York City—and I sure as hell do—then I have a guess as to who’s behind this. Damn it, that was my next big goal—getting her building under my control. Shit. 

“What developer, Mom? What does it say?”

“Pace, Inc.”

I grit my teeth to keep from cursing out loud, upsetting her even more. Those bastards have been buying up every promising property on the island and gutting them for luxury condos, forcing out people—like my mom—every step of the way.

A cold determination fills my chest. Not this time.

“You don’t have to worry, Mom. I’m going to take care of this.” I get her off the phone with a promise to come for dinner by the end of the week.

My desk chair slides back an inch when I stab the button to turn on my computer monitor. 

I’m going straight to the top, and I know exactly who I’m going to confront about this.

All I have to do is find him.