“This way.” I burst into a jog toward a back hallway and push open the metal door to the stairs.

Up, up, up we climb. By the third flight, I’m huffing. By the fifth, I’m sweating.

Crack.

My ankle rolls on the sixth-floor landing and I stumble into Graeme, who catches me.

“Shit,” I breathe. The heel of my right shoe has broken clean off. Anxiety siphons down my throat and pools in my chest. I can’t present to Marlen looking like this.

“Here, swap,” says Walsh, toeing off her slip-on sneakers.

Kicking off my ruined heels, I put on her shoes. “You’re a lifesaver.” They pinch—her feet are half a size smaller than mine—but they’re all I’ve got. At least they’re black like my suit. I take off up the stairs with Walsh dashing behind me, barefoot and clutching my ruined heels.

We burst into the lobby, startling Sadie, the receptionist, and fast-walk through the serpentine hallways until we reach Marlen’s corner office suite. Barbara, Christina, and Tory are already there.

“Thank God, you made it,” says Christina.

Bracing my hands on my waist, I suck in oxygen and attempt to calm my roiling nerves.

“Are you ready?” Tory asks.

My stomach churns and I’m grateful it’s empty. I offer a twitchy smile. “Not remotely.”

“It’s now or never,” says Barbara. “You have fifteen minutes.”

I nod frantically. “Okay. I can do this.”

Christina hands me the binder. “Just remember your main points.”

“And let the numbers back you up,” adds Tory.

“And don’t forget,” says Graeme, tucking a loose strand of hair back into my bun. “You’re Henley Evans. And you’re a rock star.”

“Damn straight.” Walsh nods as she brushes lint off my suit coat and straightens my skirt.

“Is he ready for me?” I ask Rose, Marlen’s secretary, who’s watching our exchange with a curious expression.

Picking up her phone, she pushes a button. “Henley Evans is here to see you… Yes, Mr. Jones.” She hangs up the phone and peers up at me. “Go on in.”

29

When I open the door, Marlen looks up from where he’s reading a spiral-bound report from his sleek gray sofa. “Miss Evans, come in.” His jaunty voice beckons me out of the threshold and into his expansive corner office.

Marlen Jones is the last person you’d expect to be a CEO of a major corporation. He’s young as far as CEOs go—midforties—with a full head of wavy black hair, an ever-present grin, and a twinkle in his eye.