6. SARA

Thank God they’re all looking at the PowerPoint now instead of at me. My hands are shaking so badly, they might think I’m suddenly going through drug withdrawals or something.

Two hours ago, my biggest worries were dealing with my hangover and making my rent. Now I’m sitting in a boardroom with a $150,000 contract to investigate Chance Talbot – who just happens to be the high school boyfriend whose heart I broke fifteen years ago.

I drop my hands under the table and pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard enough to make myself wince. Shit – the pain is real. This isn’t a nightmare.

“As you can see, Empire is prepared to be aggressive in our acquisition,” Quentin drones beside me. It barely registers with me, though, because all I see is Chance. This isn’t the boy who used to nibble my neck in the storeroom of the old rec center and promise me that we were going to make it big someday.

This is a man. Tre was always a beefy football player, but Chance is something else now. He must live in the gym, the way he fills out that golf shirt. The fabric clings to his shoulders and chest and arms, but billows down at his waist where it’s tucked into his khakis. There isn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on him that I can see.

Then why is it I can’t stop staring at his eyes? Those flinty, ash-colored eyes that always used to light up whenever they saw me.

They’re not lighting up this now. In fact, he’s been avoiding eye contact with me since Quentin started talking. And I can’t blame him.

“Our offer is $25 a share,” says Quentin. “Obviously I don’t know exactly how your shares are structured, but that price should be enough to make each of you a millionaire about a hundred times over.”

Across the table, Mrs. Sullivan plays it cool, but the interest in her eyes is plain to see.

“You’re assuming we’ll each sell all of our shares,” she says.

“That’s a condition of the deal,” he says flatly. “It’s all or nothing. You either agree to give over control, or the offer goes away.”

“Then you might as well go home right now,” Chance says, arms crossed. “There’s no way I’m selling.”

“We don’t need your shares,” says Quentin. “The rest of the board makes up the controlling interest. If they sell and you don’t, Empire will simply replace you as chairman and CEO. You’ll be a shareholder, nothing else.”

Chance looks over to the board’s side of the table, shaking his head.

“Agnes,” he says. “Tell him what you think of his offer so we can all get on with our days.”

Typical Chance. Wears casual clothes when everyone else in in suits, calls the shareholders by their first names, and just assumes he’s right. He may be a lot more powerful now, but he’s still the same little thug I fell in love with all those years ago.

I pinch my hand again, just in case. No such luck – still not a bad dream.

“Mr. Chairman,” says Mrs. Sullivan, sounding like a lecturing mother. “We’ll follow proper procedure, if you don’t mind.”

Chance rolls his eyes. “Fine. Any discussion on this ridiculous offer to tear down everything Sully and I built?”

What they built? The investigator in me is buzzing with questions: how did a kid from the streets of Philly end up as CEO of a multi-billion-dollar security company?

“That’ll be enough of that,” she snaps. “I may love you like a son, Chance, but don’t go thinking you have a monopoly on Patrick’s legacy.”

Then I see something that makes me pinch my hand yet again: Chance Talbot apologizing.

“You’re right, ma’am,” he says, eyes on the table. “I’m sorry.”

This is definitely not the same cocky kid I used to know. Back then, it was his way or the highway.

A blond man – one of the Sullivans, I assume – clears his throat.

“I get where you’re coming from, Chance,” he says. “I mean, Atlas is you and the family, always has been. But to be honest, if Dad were here and he saw the opportunity for all of us to make this kind of money in one fell swoop…”

He doesn’t have to finish the thought. Seriously, who would pass up a hundred-million-dollar offer? I’m selling my soul for a thousandth of that.

A wave of nausea crashes into me as I realize what that means: Pearce wants me to dig up dirt on Chance. Shit. I knew it had to be too good to be true.

God, why can’t anything be simple?