Page 178 of Obey

Not a request.

But I’m over his demands, so I turn to him with my most professional smile; the one I’ve spent years perfecting for rooms where I need to be untouchable.

“Sorry, Mr. Blackwell, I have a vendor meeting and a scheduling emergency for the launch that can’t wait. And your meeting with the board is in ten minutes.”

I catch the slight wince at the formal address. Good.

“Sloane, we need to talk.”

“Respectfully, I don’t think we do.” I adjust my tablet against my hip. “You made your opinion of me very clear.”

With that, I turn and walk away, fueled by a confidence borrowed from some part of me that hasn’t yet collapsed.

I don’t look back.

Because if I see the expression on his face, if I see anything that resembles hurt or regret, I’ll crumble right here in this hallway with half the office as witnesses.

The launch venue smells like fresh paint, polished concrete, and money.

I stand near the center of the main floor with my tablet tucked against my chest while two members of the production team adjust the placement of the display platforms.

The space is still mostly empty, but I can already see what it will become in a few days—lighting rigs washed in soft gold, sleek black installations, glass cases displaying prototypes that have taken years to perfect.

Whatever happens after this, the launch itself must be perfect. This was my project, and I refuse to walk away before I see it done right.

“Move the third display six inches toward the center,” I call to one of the crew members. “Once the press wall goes up, that walkway is going to feel too narrow.”

He nods, and I continue to inspect the space. I turn to test the audio when my phone rings. I glance down, see a San Francisco number I don’t recognize, and answer automatically.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Harper.” A soft purr slips through the speaker. “I was beginning to think you screened your calls.”

“Adrian.” My pulse kicks hard against my ribs at the sound of his voice. His lawyers had him out on bail by the afternoon after his arrest. I knew he was free, but I hadn't expected him to be stupid enough to contact me. “How did you get this number?”

“Does it matter? You answered, didn't you?”

Bile rises in my throat, and I move away from the crew, heading toward the quieter edge of the venue. “Delete it.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because I didn’t give it to you.”

“No,” he agrees with a casualness that makes my skin crawl. “You didn’t.”

I lower my voice. “What do you want?”

“My, my, and here I thought that green you wore to the gala was your color, but I’m starting to really like you in plum.”

A sick feeling settles in my stomach as I look down at the plum silk blouse and the tailored black slacks I’m wearing.

“How do you—” I stop myself, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing the dread in my voice, and I scan the venue again, my gaze methodical this time. “Where are you?”

“Not there.”

“Okay, I’m done playing this game. You have about ten seconds before I hang up.”

“I heard things got uncomfortable at SOLAÉ.”