She was wrong. It was a text message from a contact she’d saved as Tyrant.

Did you sleep well?

Speak of the devil. She tapped her phone.

No.

Are you okay?

Fine. Still waking up. Unlike certain workaholics, I don’t get up to make millions before breakfast.

I worked out as well.

You need help.

Harlow wrinkled her nose. Her workouts involved the odd Pilates class when her friend, Christie, dragged her to one, or power walking to the coffee shop for a latte.

Do you need a day off?

She gasped and typed furiously.

No.

Sure?

She wasn’t sure she could deal with a considerate Easton Norcross.

Yes. Stop being nice.

Okay. See you in the office, Ms. Carlson.

Don’t mess up my desk before I get in.

She showered—she only managed lukewarm, because despite the hum of inappropriate desire, she couldn’t do a cold shower. She had a few finger-shaped bruises on her shoulder, and a faint smudge along her cheekbone. Thankfully, that could be hidden with makeup. She moved her arm and felt a twinge. She might pop some Advil as well.

She dressed in a fitted, black skirt and a sensible white shirt before she blow-dried her hair. She pulled it back into a sleek ponytail.

Her phone beeped again.

She shook her head. No doubt Easton couldn’t find something.

She glanced at the phone and her stomach clenched. It was a message from her father.

Meet me for breakfast. Sweet Maple.

Damn. Harlow pressed a hand to her cheek. He hadn’t even asked her if she was okay. What the hell are you mixed up in, Dad?

She shot off a quick text to Easton.

Change of plans. I’ll be a little late.

Then she grabbed her bag and dashed out the door. Her phone beeped as she entered the elevator, but she ignored it.

A few minutes after eight, she walked into her favorite neighborhood breakfast place, the laid-back Sweet Maple. They did the best French toast. It took a second to spot her father. He sat alone at a table, nursing a coffee mug. He was staring out the window.

Her heart clenched. Her normally well-dressed, well-groomed father looked disheveled. He wore a creased suit, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times.

“Dad?”

His head jerked up, and he shot to his feet. He had dark circles under his eyes.

“Princess.” He pulled her close and hugged her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Luckily, my boss dropped me off last night and scared the guy away.”

Charles Carlson bobbed his head and sat. He toyed with his mug nervously.

Harlow dropped into a chair. “Dad, what is going on? You left a message saying you’re in trouble, then you avoid me, now this man saying—” Harlow couldn’t swear to her dad “—you’re screwed, and so am I.”