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"I remember. I also remember that you told me about the reports she pulls for you and how she organizes them exactly the way you like them. That’s like office porn for you. I’m surprised you didn’t get down on one knee and propose right then. At least you wouldn’t be in this mess of finding a bride anymore, now that Sienna dumped your ass."

Sienna Brighton. One of the head business brokers for the Harvey Group. Smart, driven, arguably beautiful, and one of the youngest and most successful brokers in Seattle at twenty-eight years old.

"Sienna didn’t dump me. We were never together."

"I can’t force you to face reality if you refuse."

"Do you have a real reason for calling besides wasting my time?" I ask.

"I just wanted to check in and see how it was going with Aria," he says. "I know, since you barked ‘she’s off limits’ like a guard dog on Friday. That’s very on brand for someone who doesn’t notice her."

Heat flares under my collar. "I reacted because you were overstepping with an employee. We have HR policies for a reason. If you want to date, pick someone who doesn’t work for me."

"Who said anything about me?" he mutters. "But interesting that’s where your mind went."

"Levi…"

"Relax, Tin Man. I’m just saying, for once maybe examine why you’re reacting instead of doubling down on whatever robot script you’re running."

"I don’t have time for this. I have a board to prepare for."

He lets out a low whistle. "You’re really something, you know that? You’re going to die at your desk one day, and the coroner is going to have to pry your laptop out of your cold, dead hands."

"As long as the quarterly report is finished, they can pry whatever they like," I say dryly.

He chuckles. "I’ll see you tonight. Try not to scare any children with your resting murder face." He pauses. "Oh, and Everett?"

"What?"

"If you’re going to insist you don’t have a heart, maybe stop yelling about who is or isn’t off-limits to you."

The line goes dead before I can respond, and then I slide my phone face down back on my desk. The worst part is how his words sit in my head, echoing.

I don’t have a heart. That part I won’t contest because I’ve made sure of it.

I push away from the desk abruptly, as if distance from the furniture might translate into distance from the thought.

She’s gone. Her access badge will be disabled, her email deactivated. The charity auction will happen next week. The board will get its updates. PR will spin whatever version of me they want to sell to the public. And the Aria Taylor problem will resolve itself the way all staffing problems do: quietly, efficiently, without lingering side effects.

I straighten my tie and clear my throat before heading down the hall to meet Christian.

Behind me, somewhere on this floor, a box is probably being packed. A desk emptied. A security badge turned in.

I don’t look back.

Because I have a bigger problem that needs my full attention.

I need a bride. And I need her fast.

Chapter Three

ARIA

I don’t cry until I’m in my car.

The parking garage is mostly empty—three-thirty on a Monday, and no one’s in a rush to leave except the woman who just got fired. I sit in the driver’s seat of my beat-up Honda with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel and try to breathe through the panic clawing at my throat.

I pull out my phone and open my banking app with shaking fingers.