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And I'm alone.

My phone vibrates on the desk.

I nearly jump out of my skin.

Jesus Christ.

I'm going to have a heart attack before anyone gets the chance to murder me.

I stare at the phone.

The screen lights up with a notification, but I can't make out the words from where I'm standing.

I should stop hiding behind a wall like a frightened child.

I'm twenty-five years old. I have a law degree, a career I've worked my ass off for, and clients who trust me to handle their problems.

I can handle this.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I cautiously peek through the blinds again.

The man is gone.

My stomach drops.

Where the hell did he go?

I scan the sidewalk, then spot him beside the building's entrance.

He's looking up at the windows, his expression hard, his hand disappearing beneath his leather vest.

Oh, God.

He's coming for me.

I grab my purse, shove my phone inside, and hurry toward the rear exit.

I have no intention of sticking around to find out what that man wants.

I slip into the corridor, hurry to the back door, and nearly curse when the handle refuses to move.

The deadbolt.

I twist it with shaking fingers and shove the door open.

Cold air hits my face as I stumble into the alley.

I need to get somewhere public. Somewhere with people who might help me.

I hurry toward the street, but my pencil skirt is making running a spectacular pain in the ass.

With my generous hips, thick thighs, and a backside that has never cooperated with clothing sizes, buying a pencil skirt was questionable enough. Trying to sprint in one is downright ridiculous.

I yank it up a few inches.

Whoever invented fitted skirts clearly never had to escape a potential murderer.

My heels click against the pavement as I dig through my purse for the pepper spray.