I’m sitting at the huge dining table, surrounded by pages of handwritten notes.
My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, my skin pale, the mug of tea beside me long since turned cold. Every commercial property, every company name, every warehouse location that I can remember is written down in dark, jagged ink on the notepad in front of me.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft swoosh, and Locke steps out into the foyer.
"Zara?" His deep voice booms through the penthouse, his heavy boots clicking rapidly against the hardwood as he crosses the room in three long strides. “What is it? You sounded terrible on the phone.”
“Hi. Thanks for coming home.”
“What happened?” He drops his leather jacket onto a chair and crouches down beside me, his massive, calloused hand reaching out to cover min
