I’m ready. Or as ready as I’ll ever be.

I’m wearing a new navy designer shift dress I couldn’t afford to splurge on, flesh-toned pumps, and a vintage pearl necklace that once belonged to my mother. My hair is swept into an elegant up-do, and Spencer came over early to do my makeup so my blue eyes are popping amidst perfectly blended copper and brown eye shadow and my complexion appears deceptively flawless.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this well pulled-together, but I might as well be naked.

I feel naked.

Exposed.

Vulnerable and defenseless without my bulky suit and oversize shoes, without my mustache and penciled-in man-brows and the armor that allowed Eric to stride confidently into the S&H offices for three weeks, certain he could make the world—or at least this company—a better place.

I can’t believe it’s only been three weeks.

I can’t believe everything’s gone to shit in a weekend.

I can’t believe I’m teetering down the hall to the conference room as myself, as Ellie, the compromised reporter and Failure at All Things.

The email from my editor at Barrington came through while I was on the train. An exposé is only an exposé if the reporter isn’t outed in the middle of getting her story. Denise no longer has any interest in the piece on S&H, and I doubt she’ll want anything else from me in the future.

People say you can’t read tone from an email, but Denise is a professional word wrangler. Her five clipped sentences made it abundantly clear that she isn’t impressed.

Neither am I.

And neither are the angry, shocked, and betrayed faces that turn my way as Hannah spies me through the windows of the conference room and rises to open the door.

As I step into the charged space, I’m keenly aware of Jack standing in the corner of the room—the smell of him, the tension rolling off his powerful form, the way something deep in my chest aches to turn to him, run to him, wrap my arms around him and hold on tight until we find a way out of this mess—but I avoid making eye contact.

I can’t look at Jack, or I won’t be able to hold it together through what comes next.

I set my briefcase on the smooth glass at the head of the table, but I don’t sit down. Sitting will only make me feel more vulnerable, and I get the sense I won’t be here long.

These people don’t look like the friends and coworkers Eric knew. They don’t look like people who want to ask questions, listen, and come to an understanding. They look pissed off, scared, or too stunned to have an opinion, and I wish all over again that Jack had waited. That he’d trusted me, believed in me, and given me just a little more time.

Or that I had listened to his voice mails sooner, instead of shutting down communication and hiding in my lair like the old, socially dysfunctional Ellie because the thought of losing Jack and this story at the same time was enough to short circuit my coping mechanisms.

I understand why Jack felt backed into a corner, but did he really have to send out that group email last night, before we’d even had a chance to regroup?

If he had waited just a day or two, I might have been able to walk in here with my head held high, a criminal-activity-exposing hero. At the very least, I would’ve been armed with complete and professionally presented research that would have justified my deception.

But the notes and pie charts I cobbled together after finally listening to Jack’s frantic voice mails last night aren’t impressive.

As I pull the copies from my briefcase, my hands are trembling. Around two this morning, when it became clear I was going to need every second I could get to pull my presentation together, I emailed Jack, giving him permission to start the meeting before my arrival. I was hoping he would soften them up with the signature Holt charm, and then I’d win them over by explaining why my investigation was so important and dispensing evidence of my solid research skills.

But as I stare at the sea of angry, confused faces, my confidence in my plan crumbles faster than the stale muffin I forced down on my way to the train.

“Before we start looking over the numbers and statistics,” I say, my voice thin in the too-silent room, “I want to assure all of you that I never intended to make anyone feel foolish. I truly had, and still have, the best of intentions.”

“I don’t care about your intentions.” Rictor’s bark breaks the seal on the room, inspiring a chorus of angry grumbles from where the brokers are gathered. “I want to know if your undercover stunt is going to sink the company we’ve busted our asses to build.”

“It’s not fair,” Frame pipes up, dark eyes wide in his pale face. “A lot of us have families, people depending on us. Making S and H look bad in the media isn’t going to make the world a better place for women. It’s going to take food off the table for our wives and kids. And do you have any idea how much diapers cost?”

“And childcare,” Barb from accounting pipes up.

“I understand where you’re coming from.” My gaze shifts between Frame and Barb, willing them to see that my heart is in the right place. “This isn’t about throwing S and H—or any of you—to the wolves. Through my investigation—”

“Through your deception, you mean.” This from Lulu’s supervisor, Will Pool, who isn’t even trying to wipe the smear of smug satisfaction from his face.

Plowing on, I say, “I’d hoped to get an insider’s perspective and a clearer picture of where a typical financial institution is failing to provide equal opportunity and compensation, and by bringing that to light, start a conversation that might lead to change. Not just here, but—”

“Might is the operative word, Ms. Seyfried.” Penelope, one of the most senior members of the executive support staff, is clearly unimpressed. “I’ve been in this game a long time, and change, when it comes, comes slowly. Half the time the people who blow the whistle are tossed out or paid off, the unpleasant things they’ve exposed are swept under the rug, and the only result is ruined reputations, lost money, and wasted energy, which should be spent getting work done, spent cleaning up a pointless mess.”

“Not all the time. Sometimes policies change and things get better,” Wallace says, surprising me. He was kind to Eric, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as an ally. “I just hate knowing I was part of an experiment without my knowledge.” He blows out a breath, cutting his gaze to Jack. “And I can’t believe the execs went along with it.”

“That’s why I’m here to assure you all that we’re going to make this right.” Jack steps forward to stand beside me. “Ellie’s research was unconventional, yes, but it was also invaluable in pinpointing places where S and H can improve best practices. In the coming weeks, Ian and I will be reviewing all of Ellie’s findings, meeting with any employees who wish to discuss issues and ideas, and implementing positive changes based on your direct input. I’m sorry I misled you, but I will do everything in my power to earn back your trust, if you’ll let me.”

Wallace nods, and most of the others in the room follow suit. How could they not? Jack is a force. He’s not afraid to apologize or admit when he’s wrong, and no matter how shaken they were by the news that he’s been involved in my research, he’s always had their backs.

I just wish he had mine, too.

I lower my eyes, blinking back tears as Jack continues to rally the troops with his detailed plans for making S&H great again.

“To that end,” he continues, “we’re starting immediately with some modifications to our sexual harassment policy and protocols.” Jack motions toward the door, where Hannah is seated in her usual chair against the wall, taking notes. “Hannah, if you’ll hand out the materials, please? I want to be sure everyone knows the proper channels for lodging a complaint and how that complaint will be evaluated and addressed. We’ll walk through the new procedures, then open the floor up for any questions. Sound good?” At everyone’s murmurs of agreement, Jack turns to me with a smile that feels forced and thin. “Thanks for coming in today, Miss Seyfried.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

Jack doesn’t tell me to leave, but it’s clear that I’m no longer needed—or wanted—here.

Tucking my untouched handouts back into my briefcase, I take a step toward the door, but Jack appears in front of me, blocking the exit.

“Don’t go,” he says, his voice low. “Stay. See what Ian and I came up with last night. I think you’ll be proud of the changes we’re making—all because of you.”

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “They don’t want me here.”

“They’re just surprised—they need some time to process. Besides, I want you here, and I’m the boss.”

The cautious smile curving his lips and the hope in his eyes offer the opportunity to salvage at least one beautiful thing from the wreckage of my failed experiment. Jack still wants me. I could stay, suffer through the rest of this uncomfortable meeting, and then go to lunch with my boyfriend.

But as much as a part of me wants that—to be Jack’s girl, to be in Jack’s arms and his good graces and his bed—the sting of his rejection hurts too damned much.

He didn’t reject Ellie the woman he’s sleeping with, but his insistence on exposing our plans before I could finish my work set off a bomb in the middle of Ellie the reporter’s life.

Ellie the sister isn’t faring too well, either.

The message Ian left on my cell last night was the angriest I’ve heard my brother since I played bomber pilot with his model airplanes when we were kids, gleefully sailing each wooden masterpiece off the roof to crash onto the driveway below, my five-year-old brain not realizing how impossible it would be to put them back together.

And now Jack and I are the same.

Shattered. Broken.

He made that clear in his response to my email last night, when he insisted this was the only option—we had to tie up loose ends and put everyone’s minds at ease before the situation escalated—and revoked my remote access to the S&H systems.

Right. I’m sure everyone’s mind is at ease now—especially Blair’s, considering I can’t get back into her emails and I’ve got no clear evidence to prove she’s at the core of something rotten, eating this company from the inside out.

And my hunches? They’re not worth much at Seyfried & Holt these days.

So instead of staying and seeing if I can squeeze myself into this new, smaller slice of Jack’s life, I shake my head and send a silent farewell to everything we could have been. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

His gaze sweeps my face, his green eyes flickering with hurt. “Are you leaving leaving? Or just leaving the office?”

He waits a beat, letting the meaning of his words sink in. Part of me appreciates that he’s giving me the choice, but the other part—the softer, more insecure, and much larger part—resents him for putting this decision on me. I know the timing sucks—he needs to take care of his employees and do some serious damage control with Ian right now—but after everything we’ve been through these past few weeks…

I guess I’d hoped he could do better than “Are you leaving leaving?”

Where’s the man who taught me how to walk tall and strong? The man who swept me into his arms, wiped away my tears, and made wild, shameless love to me? The man who dragged me up the side of a mountain and invited me to Colorado, his eyes glittering with a thousand unspoken promises of all the things still to come?

Maybe he never really existed at all.

Maybe, like so many things in my life, I completely misread the entire thing.

Telling myself it’s for the best, I square my shoulders, and I let him off the hook. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I wish you all the best, Jack—truly. But we both know this wouldn’t have worked.”

It’s a lousy excuse, but it’s all I’ve got left.

Jack’s brow furrows and his lips part, but before he can respond, Hannah taps him on the shoulder. “Materials are out, boss. Do you want me to pull up the slide presentation?”

As Jack turns to answer her, I slip around him and out the door, breath rushing out in a sigh that is equal parts relief and misery.

I’m grateful the confrontation is over, but knowing that I’ll never touch Jack again hurts like someone’s carved out part of my heart, leaving just enough behind to register how lonely I’m going to be without him. Before my time with Jack, I hadn’t realized how much I craved this kind of connection, how much I ached to be loved and accepted and told that I’m beautiful by a man who means every word.

But now I know, and I can’t ever un-know it.

Pressing a fist to my chest, I swear I can feel something sucking away at me from the inside, a black hole of pain where hope used to live.

The thought of going home to my apartment and seeing the bed where Jack and I made love and the floor where we danced and the kitchen table where he sat as I made him my favorite gourmet grilled cheese is unbearable.

No, I can’t go home. Not yet.

But I can’t go to one of my old coffee shop work haunts, either.

I don’t have anything to work on. My story was ripped away just as it was starting to confess its secrets, just as the dots were connecting. I’m not mentally ready to let this go, but I can’t approach Jack or Ian with a gut feeling and a few odd emails, not when they’ve made it clear they don’t want me sticking my nose in S & H’s databases.

I’ve got no choice but to move on.

Right?

“Wrong,” I mutter, ducking my head to avoid making eye contact with the receptionist at the front desk. I can’t handle any more judgy faces this morning.

But I can handle this story. I may not be the best at making friends and influencing people, but I’m an animal when it comes to amassing data and reading between the lines. There’s something big going down at S & H and I’m not going to let a little resistance—or a lot of resistance—stand in the way of making sure Blair faces the harsh glare of justice. Or the icy soaking tub of justice. Or whatever kind of justice will hurt that lying, scheming, fellow-female-sabotaging jerk the worst.

If only I could get back into her damned emails.

Hack into them, even…

“Hack them…” I bite my lip, thoughts racing as I jab the button for the ground floor and whip out my cell.

On the way down in the elevator, I scroll through my contacts.

My college friend Gregory is not a source, but he owes me a solid—not just for bailing on drink night with me and my stupid ex, but for the strings I pulled for him with the alumni committee, guaranteeing he and his wife could get married at the Harvard Natural History museum where they met. He’s also a dynamite hacker. He put most of that behind him when he graduated, but I’m pretty sure I can convince him to come out of retirement for a good cause.

If I find the evidence I need, Jack and Ian will forgive my unorthodox methods. And if I don’t, neither of them needs to know I went looking. But I have to look, not simply to finish what I started, but to protect the company and the men I love.

I do love them. Both. So much.

And I get to keep loving one of them.

Ian will eventually forgive me. Blood is thicker than disappointment or anger. We’ll make up and move on, and someday—aside from the aching chasm in my chest where Jack used to live—it will be like this never happened.

The thought should be at least a little comforting.

But it isn’t. Not at all.