43

Long hours had been a part of the job for as long as Victoria could remember. In school, her father had given her extra homework assignments. He’d wake her up an hour early to read a particularly complex analysis of the market, the scent of his aftershave sharp in her nose. Her first years at Livingston were a blur of fourteen-hour days and all-nighters. She’d push until fatigue collapsed into exhaustion, investing in espresso beans, energy shots, and an ergonomic chair.

Coffee addiction and the lack of proper sleep didn’t bother her anymore, and as Victoria knocked items off her agenda, she settled into the familiar rhythm with a warmth in her gut. In her office, classical music played softly in the background while she sent out the last emails of the day, prepped documents, and approved contracts to her heart’s content, the antithesis to those torturous nights when Warren gaslit her into believing that runner-up was just as good as first place.

Who needed to be CEO when her trajectory was locked into a future as Warren’s happy housewife and incubator?

Children were wonderful. She loved watching the kids in the Manor trick-or-treat and hunt for Easter eggs, and the Christmas pageants in the clubhouse were delightful. If she ever went down the mothering route she had no doubt she’d be one of those moms organizing matching outfits for photo shoots, doing that little bit extra.

But for Victoria, that possibility remained hypothetical. She had no desire to be in the same position.

And that was okay. Warren should’ve known that forcing the issue would end in nothing but disaster.

Victoria was not meant to be a mother. She knew that in her bones. But for this? she thought, closing the file for the night. For the satisfaction of her hard work coming to fruition? For this, she would gladly sacrifice sleep.

Because if Victoria’s roots were planted anywhere, it was at Livingston. This was more her home than the house in Kent Wood Manor or the brick behemoth where she’d spent her childhood. Finishing up at the office that night, she no longer dreaded the hours until she’d be able to return. Whatever pressure she’d put on herself to live up to Warren’s expectations—of motherhood, of having the white-picket-fence wife—had slowly dissipated.

Who needed therapy when an anonymous psycho could murder your husband for free?

She’d just shut down her laptop when a sharp rap made her look up. Jeff leaned in the doorway, shirtsleeves casually rolled to the elbows, tie askew. His hair wasn’t gelled today, she saw, and he kept running a hand through it as if the free-falling strands were foreign to even his own fingers.

“Hey, I’m on my way out,” Victoria said, shoving her things into her carrying case. “If it’s not an emergency, can it wait until tomorrow?”

“Did you have a chance to look over that hiccup with the Peterson account? I emailed you this morning but didn’t hear back.”

“I cc’d you on my response; I sent it over to Lauren, and she’ll have it handled by Monday.”

“Ah,” he said. “Must’ve missed that.”

Bullshit, she thought when he didn’t move. “Was there something else you wanted, Jeff?”

“Do you have plans for this evening?” he asked.

Victoria stopped fussing with her bag’s zipper. “Plans?”

The woodsy scent of his cologne suddenly filled her nostrils as he came toe to toe with her. “Tonight. Are you free? We could grab a late dinner at Lorenzo’s or that new fusion place downtown.”

“I don’t think so.”

“A couple of drinks at the very least. Come on, don’t leave me hanging. I want to run some ideas by you.”

Her bingo board had not included a thinly veiled attempt at a pickup line, but there they were. He hadn’t actually believed she would say yes to that, had he? “I’m sorry. That’s not going to happen.”

Jeff’s face hardened. “Vic. It’s one dinner. You have to eat, don’t you?”

“I do, but I’m under no obligation to do it with you.” Dick. “And it’s Victoria.”

“All right.” He took a step back, scoffing and wiping at his lips as he made a show of gathering his thoughts. “I urge you to reconsider.”

“Submit your comment card to HR.”

Her sarcasm hit the mark. Jeff’s cheeks reddened, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You know this power trip you’re on really isn’t a good look. This—” he motioned in a wide circle, “—doesn’t belong to you.”

“And yet here I am telling you to get out of my office.”

“People talk, Vic. Warren talked. He wasn’t happy with the way things were—with you—and then he winds up dead and you have the corner view.”

He’s guessing, her subconscious argued. A shot in the dark because his pride is hurt.

Warren and Jeff hadn’t been close. He couldn’t have known about the leave. The margin of error was slim, however, and she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

Even if Warren had spoken to Jeff about his dissatisfaction with their marriage, would he have entrusted Jeff with the details of his plan?

The accusation ignited a flame in Victoria’s gut. “We’re through. Get out.”

He skulked away, pausing at the door to meet her gaze. “The board’s going to call an emergency hearing. They don’t want anyone with a nefarious reputation running this company. Bad for the brand, bad for business. I’d say ‘suspect number one in a murder investigation’ falls under that umbrella, wouldn’t you?”

Victoria didn’t speak, seething at the threat.

He was bluffing.

Jeff’s smile was filled with daggers in the shadows. “Have a good night, Vic.”