“You, too. It’s so nice to have our own computer whiz back in town.”

Adam smiled at the compliment. “That’s nice of you to say. See you.” He left the Surf buoyed by Sarah’s confidence in him as well as the project she’d outlined. He’d always enjoyed the challenge of finding creative solutions to his clients’ vexing issues. There was nothing more satisfying than hearing that something he’d done had helped a business to achieve new efficiencies or economies.

As the adrenaline pumped through his veins, he remembered all at once that he no longer had clients or a booming business or a host of daily challenges to work through. The loss of his company seemed to finally hit him right in that moment, stealing the breath from his lungs and sending him reeling. The pain of it was physical, gripping his chest in a fierce hold that had him dropping onto the stoop of the building next to the Surf, which was, thankfully, abandoned at the moment.

Adam had no idea how long he sat there waiting for his heart rate and respiration to return to normal as the whole thing came crashing down on him. Computronic Solutions Incorporated, or “the Other CSI,” as they had called it, was gone. The company he’d built from scratch—at first from the living room of the loft he’d rented in Lower Manhattan—was no longer his.

With his elbows propped on his knees, Adam dropped his head to his hands, combing his fingers through his hair absently as he thought about the long struggle that had led to CSI becoming one of the top computer consulting companies in the city. He thought about what his dad had said about fighting for what was his, and what Abby had said about how he must not care anymore if he didn’t put up a fight.

As days of numbness and shock finally wore off, Adam discovered that he did care, and he was very, very angry. Not just at Sasha. That was only part of it. He was equally furious with the board of directors he’d hand-chosen who’d turned on him in favor of his so-called partner, who’d apparently sold them a bill of goods.

All at once, it became clear to him that he was a fool not to fight for what was his. Even if he never got back what he’d lost, he could, at the very least, make life difficult for the people who’d screwed him over.

He drew his phone from his pocket, wincing when his tattooed bicep protested the movement, and found his lawyer’s number on his list of contacts.

“Adam,” Rick Levinson said when he came on the line, sounding relieved to receive Adam’s call. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Where’ve you been?”

“Licking my wounds,” Adam said with a laugh.