I knock on Harlow’s door, giving her a few moments to tell me toe in. When she doesn’t respond, I open the door to find her lying face down on her bed, her arms and legs syed out and her face buried in a pillow. She looks like she jumped out of a ne.


    I sit on the edge of the mattress, stroke my hand over her long, silky dark hair, and say calmly, “So Mexico was a bust.”


    She sniffles into the pillow and nods.


    “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”


    She rolls over and stares at the ceiling. Her eyes are red and watering. “Didn’t Dad already tell you?”


    “I want to hear it from you, sweetie.”


    She closes her eyes and swallows convulsively. In a white T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, her skin tanned from the sun, she looks every inch the California girl.


    She also looks miserable.


    Inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, she blows it out and rubs a fist into her eye. “Dad’s a dick is what happened.”


    I press the smile from my lips and wait.


    “All he did the whole time we were there was talk on the phone with work people. Even during dinner. He never wanted to do anything or go out anywhere, not even to the pool. He basically left me and Britt alone together.”


    I know I’ll get more information the longer I keep my mouth shut, so I make a sound of sympathy and give her time.


    “I met some kids at the pool who seemed nice, and we hung out a couple times.”


    “Boys?”


    “Boys and girls. They were from Arizona, on a school trip with their music teacher and some parents. They just won some big musicpetition or whatever and were celebrating. They were doing a bonfire thing on the beach, s’mores and stuff, and invited me toe.”


    This doesn’t sound quite like the bhanal I pictured from Nick’s description, but I’m sure there’s more to the story. There always is.


    “So you snuck out?”


    “I told Dad I was going, but you know how he is. He doesn’t listen.”


    She looks to me for agreement, but I’m not taking the bait. I keep my expression impassive. “Tell me about the drugs.”


    She sits up and cries, “I wasn’t on drugs! I promise!”


    “Then why did your father think you were?”


    Chewing her lip, she nces down at her hands. I notice her fingernails are bitten to the quick.


    “I, um…I maybe had a beer.”


    She nces up at me to assess my reaction. When she finds none, she says, “Or two.”


    Which means three or four, so she was probably as high as a kite. I quell a frisson of anger and keep my voice neutral. “And you were half-naked also, apparently.”


    She flops back onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh. “No. Duh.”


    “You’ll have to do better than that.”


    “I had on my shorts and bathing suit top.”


    I’ve seen all her swim suits. None of them are flesh-colored or so tiny, you’d think they weren’t there. “And?”


    “And nothing! That’s the end of the story! Dad came out and got all extra and made a scene. It was totes embarrassing. He’s so Ohio.”


    I think that means disappointing, but I’m not asking. There are more important things to discuss. “This beer drinking—”


    “It was the only time I’ve drank. I didn’t even like it.”


    “The point isn’t if you liked it. The point is that you’re underage, and you know better.”


    She sulks for a minute, then says snarkily, “At least I’m not like you and Dad and dating a toddler and the pool boy.”


    I almost burst outughing but manage to look stern. “I’m sorry you had to meet Carter under those circumstances, but he’s not a pool boy. And you’re grounded for two weeks. No phone, no iPad, no going out with your friends.”


    Outraged, she props herself up on her elbows and stares at me. “Mom!”


    “Yes, I am your mother. And I love you. And I’m unhappy that I have to punish you, but you made the choices. Life is full of unpleasant repercussions for making poor choices.”


    She rolls off the bed, stands, and stares at me, fists balled at her side. “Kaylee’s mom lets her drink sometimes!”


    Knowing the psychology of height differences in power dynamics, I stand and gaze down at my daughter. We have a few years yet before she’s taller than me.


    “Yes, and Kaylee’s mother is a four-time divorced alcoholic with no self-esteem and very few active brain cells. This is why you’re not allowed to hang out with her. You’re grounded for two weeks. And since nobody bothered to inform me that you’d be home early so I could arrange for Greta to be here, you’reing to work with me today. Get dressed, and when youe downstairs, be prepared to hand over your electronics.”


    I leave to the sound of her howling in frustration behind me.<hr>


    She sulks until we step off the elevator at my office building and the receptionist greets her like a rock star. Then she perks up and saunters around like she owns the ce.


    I’ve brought her to the office with me a few times before, but today is different as it’s not the national Bring Your Daughters and Sons to Work holiday, and I didn’t ask my boss if it would be okay.


    Other than with Carter, I’m not in the habit of asking anyone for permission for anything.


    Fridays are usually pretty easy for me, and today is no exception. My schedule’s wide open. No staff meetings or presentations darken my calendar. I set Harlow up with a few easy tasks like filing paperwork and organizing my supply closet, then get to work.


    Within thirty minutes, Nick calls.


    And he calls the main office line from a blocked number because he knows I won’t pick up my cell for him today.


    As soon as I answer, he snaps, “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that kid? Christ, Sophia, you’re old enough to be his mother.”


    I keep my voice low so Harlow, working on the other side of myrge office, can’t hear me. “That’s hysterical. What’s the age difference between you and Brittany again? Oh, that’s right—twenty-five years. I assume you’re aware that’s a quarter of a century?”


    “It’s different for men.”


    “Hello, double standard. It’s not even a little bit different, but nice try.”


    “Look, you’re embarrassing yourself! People will think you’re a pervert.”


    “Are you even listening to the wordsing out of your mouth?


    He hates that I’m not getting upset and tries a different tack. “Think of your daughter.”


    “The daughter you ignored the entire time you were in Mexico so you could talk on your phone?”


    “I have to work!”


    “Then why bother taking a vacation?”


    He makes a noise of frustration. “Because Britt wanted to, that’s why. She’s been nagging me about spending more time together before the babyes.”


    “That’s called being in a rtionship, Nick.”


    “God, I hate it when you talk down to me.”


    “Are you calling for some specific reason or did you just want to shout at me?”


    In the pause that follows, I hear the sharp, hollow sound of footsteps. Wherever he is, he’s pacing the floor.


    “How are we going to punish Harlow?”


    “Where’s the sudden interest in parentinging from? Thest time she misbehaved, you told me to deal with it and didn’t call again for weeks.”


    “Cut the shit, Soph.”


    “I think it’s you who’s dishing out shit. Can we not discuss this now? I have work to do.”


    “We need to punish her!”


    I sigh and look at the ceiling. Men acting like children when they don’t get their way is so par for the course. “I grounded her for two weeks. No going out, no electronics.”


    He digests that in angry silence. “Fine.”


    “You say that like I was waiting for your approval.”


    “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”


    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”


    “Sure you do. Waving your little boy toy in my face, trying to make me jealous.”


    I can’t believe he’s being this ridiculous, but if he thinks he’s going to get a rise out of me with this churlish behavior, he’s wrong.


    “If you’ll recall, genius, I had no idea you’d show up when you did. Or do you think I suddenly gained psychic powers?”


    “Don’t be fucking condescending. I hate it when you’re condescending.”


    I think about that for a moment, then decide we have nothing left to discuss.


    “Good talk, Nick. Give Brittany my best. Have a beautiful day!”


    I hang up, smiling.


    “Mom?” Harlow stands in the middle of the office, a file folder in her hand. I was so distracted by the call, I didn’t notice her creeping closer.


    “Yes, honey?”


    “Was that Dad?”


    “Yes.”


    Her voice small, she asks, “What did he say? Is he still mad at me?”


    Oh, arrow through my heart. My poor baby.


    I say softly, “No, honey, he’s not mad. He said he loves you, and he’ll see you next weekend.”


    She gazes at me for a beat, then looks down and nods. She whispers, “Okay.” She nces up again and meets my eyes. “You don’t have to lie for him, though. He never says he loves anybody.”


    When she turns away, head bent and shoulders slumped, I seriously contemte finding a gun for hire and having him put a bullet in Nick’s head.


    She acted out to get her father’s attention, but the hard lesson she has to learn is that his attention is already spoken for.


    There’s no one that man is more interested in than himself.<hr>


    At five-thirty, just as I’m about to pack it in for the day, my phone rings. It’s Janice, my boss’s receptionist, telling me that Mr. Hartman would like to see me in his office.


    In the fifteen months I’ve worked for TriCast, I’ve never been summoned to his office. Especially at quitting time on a Friday.


    This doesn’t bode well.


    “What does he want, Janice? Can it wait until Monday?”


    “I don’t know what he wants, Ms. Bianco, he just said to send you in as soon as possible. He sounded like it couldn’t wait.”


    Sighing, I nod. “Okay. Thank you.”


    I hang up and tell Harlow I’ll be right back. She’s lying on the leather sofa along the window, reading a book. She wiggles her fingers to acknowledge me.


    The maze of cubicles is almost empty as I walk through the main floor to the CEO’s office. Only a few stragglers remain. I smile and nod to people as I pass, curious about what my boss has on his mind.


    When I reach his receptionist’s desk, she says, “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”


    I try not to read anything into the nervous look on her face.


    I knock before entering, then stick my head through the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hartman. You wanted to see me?”


    He gestures impatiently for me to enter. “Yes,e in. And please close the door.”


    Smoothing my hands down my skirt, I cross the plush expanse of carpet that separates us, then sit in one of therge brown leather chairs opposite his massive oak desk. He removes his sses, drops them onto the desk blotter, sits back in his chair, and sps his hands over his stomach.


    Then he stares at me in expectant silence.


    This is a tactic I’m familiar with. The vast majority of people are extremely ufortable with silence, so if you’re looking for a confession—say you’re a police officer interrogating a suspect—you ask a question, then wait. Then wait some more, even after the person answers, until they finally get so nervous, they spill their guts.


    Mr. Hartman doesn’t have a teenage daughter, however, so he doesn’t understand that I’m an expert at gueri warfare.


    I cross my legs, fold my hands in myp, and smile pleasantly.


    He’s a big man in histe sixties with a silver crewcut and a mole on his cheek that looks vaguely malignant. Tall and barrel-chested, he can be intimidating when he wants to be.


    Right now, he wants to be. His expression hovers somewhere between prison warden and crime boss.


    Finally, he breaks. “We have a situation.”


    “What kind of situation?”


    “A delicate one. Have you seen today’s edition of Celebrity Insider?”


    I recognize the name. It’s a tabloid, and a scious one.


    I have a bad feeling about this.


    Holding his gaze, I say calmly, “No. I don’t read gossip magazines. Why do you ask?”


    He stares at me for another beat, then opens the top drawer of his desk. From it, he removes a magazine. He tosses it across his desk toward me.


    “Page four.”


    Filled with trepidation, I pick up the magazine and flip through the pages, already guessing what I might find. But my breath still catches when I see the images that apany a short article titled “Billionaire yboy Finds a New ymate.”


    There are three pictures of Carter and me.


    The first shows us walking into the Italian restaurant in Venice on our first date. It’s taken from the back, but we’re in profile, talking to each other, so the viewer can see part of our faces. Carter’s hand rests at the small of my back.


    The second photograph is grainy, as if taken from a distance through a long lens. It shows Carter kissing my hand at the table we shared at Nobu Malibu overlooking the sand. My face is fuzzy, but my smile is unmistakable. Carter’s hair is a me of gold in the setting sun.


    From the angle, it appears that the photographer was out on the ocean on a boat.


    The third picture is crystal clear. Carter and I sit on the sofa in front of the outdoor firece at his home, our bare feet propped up on the wooden table. We’re both holding winesses as we kiss.


    Whoever took this picture was close. So close, I can even see the glint of firelight reflected off our winesses.


    They were probably peering over his backyard fence.


    My stomach roils. I feel sick and vited. Someone has been stalking us, taking pictures of us, and selling them to magazines.


    This might be one article of many. This might only be the tip of a very nasty iceberg because I don’t think the shades were drawn on the French doors that led from the backyard to the living room of Carter’s house that night.


    The living room where I had him on all fours as I spanked his naked ass with a wooden spoon.


    My mind and pulse racing, I nce up at Mr. Hartman.


    He says, “That’s Carter McCord. And you.”


    I toss the magazine back onto his desk and fold my hands in myp again. Now, they’re mmy. “Yes, it is.”


    He curses, shaking his head. “This is bad, Sophia. This is very bad for us.”


    “Us? You’re not the one being stalked by paparazzi.”


    “They mention you by name. They give your position at thispany. Do you have any idea how the stockholders will react to this news? Not to mention the rest of the industry? Do you know what this looks like?”


    I recall Val telling me about her hairdresser seeing Carter in the gossip rags with a string of women and wince internally.


    I’m the newest one on the string.


    Stoic, I say, “My personal life has nothing to do with the shareholders.”


    He groans. “Hell’s bells, you know better than that! It’s no big secret he met with usst year to propose a buyout. How does this look, now, the two of you sneaking around together?”


    “No one has been sneaking anywhere or plotting anything. I had no idea we were being followed, but I can assure you, I’ll be pressing charges against that rag for invasion of privacy, along with anything else I can sue for. And, if you’re worried about me sharing information I shouldn’t, I remind you that I signed an irond NDA when I joined thispany. I haven’t broken it.”


    “How am I supposed to believe that?”


    His voice keeps rising, but I maintain the same low, controlled tone. “Are you questioning my integrity?”


    “No, I’m questioning your sanity. Carter McCord? You’re too smart for this, Sophia. He’s a dilettante!”


    “That’s what I thought too, until I got to know him better. You can’t always go by first impressions.”


    He scoffs. “I know his family. I know his history. I’ve known guys like him my whole life. Spoiled, entitled rich kids with nothing in their heads but partying, gettingid, and—”


    “That’s enough.”


    My voice cuts through his tirade like a sword. Stunned, he stares at me.


    He’s never heard me raise my voice, but if he says another negative word about Carter, he’ll hear a whole lot more than that.


    After a beat, he regains hisposure. “So this is a thing for you, then. A serious thing. You’re going to keep seeing him.”


    I do away with the respect he doesn’t deserve and address him by his first name, which it’s rumored he hates. Unsurprisingly.


    “Listen, Mervin, I appreciate your position, and I know you’re noting from a ce of malice, but unless what I’m doing is illegal or hical, I don’t owe you or anyone an exnation about what I do outside this office.”


    He says tly, “Now you’re just being na?ve.”


    “I’ll thank you not to patronize me.”


    We re at each other until his phone rings and breaks the stalemate. He sighs and waves a hand toward the door.


    “Fine. Go have a nice weekend. Try not to end up on the cover of People magazine. We’ll revisit this after I talk to legal.”


    He picks up the line, dismissing me. I rise and walk to the door with my head held high but my stomach in knots and my heart aching.


    I knew being with Carter would have its challenges, but I didn’t expect the world to start sharpening its knives so soon. The worst part is that I know this is fight far from over.


    It’s only just begun.