Julian Thorne pushed through the glass doors of the Thorne-Vance building, a massive iced coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. His head pounded with the dull, throbbing ache of a stress hangover. He had barely slept. Sloane’s apartment had been an absolute disaster—a burst pipe had flooded

"The server crash is honestly just a minor hiccup," Sloane Mercer said, her voice dripping with an unearned, glossy confidence that grated against the walls of the executive boardroom. She leaned forward, resting her perfectly manicured hands on the mahogany table. "If anything, we can spin this. We

Julian didn't remember leaving the office. He didn't remember taking the private elevator down to the underground garage, nor did he remember starting his car.

All he knew was the deafening roar of the Porsche’s engine as he tore through the streets of Austin, his hands gripping the steering wheel