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Mikayla went still.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Still.

And something about that bothered me.

The conversation lasted less than two minutes. Mikayla nodded, said something I couldn't hear, then turned and walked away.

Fast.

Her cousin called after her, but she didn't stop.

She disappeared around the side of the house toward the barns.

I set my beer down.

“Ladies, I'm afraid duty calls.”

Mrs. Jenson glanced toward the house. “Funny. Duty looks an awful lot like a pretty brunette in black pants.”

“Can't help it. I've always been a sucker for a woman who can ruin my life.”

“Just make sure she doesn't ruin those pretty teeth,” Mrs. Albright warned.

I flashed her my best smile. “These? They're insured.”

I left them laughing and headed after Mikayla. I wasn't sure what had happened on that deck, but I knew one thing. The woman who could stare down billionaires without blinking had looked like she was barely holding herself together.

And I didn't like it.

Not one damn bit.

I found her huddled in the corner of the barn.

Or rather, I heard her first. A sharp inhale. Then another. The kind of breathing that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I rounded the corner and stopped.

Mikayla sat on the ground with her back against the weathered redwood siding, knees drawn to her chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her hands trembled where they gripped her arms.

Every breath came too fast.

Too shallow.

Shit.

I'd seen her annoyed. Frustrated. Exhausted.

But I'd never seen her like this.

Small.

Scared.

And trying like hell not to let anyone know. Mikayla Parsons, the Iron Lady of St. Claire Global, hiding her panic and probably praying no one would see her break.