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I choke on my own spit, as the cells in my body feel like they’re all exploding.
“Mr. Grant isn’t here,” a condescending voice says from behind the sleek desk. “I’m surprised being hisbratty sugar baby, you don’t already know that.”
I look up into her narrowed eyes. Maybe he’s screwed her, and that’s why she looks like she’s about to call security to throw me out onto the street. Or maybe she’s just a bitch. Either way, I’m not about to take her shit for a minute longer.
“I need to speak to him.” I stomp toward the desk as my rage threatens to either explode into a wrath to rival the Big Bang, or dissolve into a nauseous puddle.
Either is possible.
“That’s not—”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s in a meeting with the fucking president right now,” I snap, pulling his number up on my phone and hitting call.
It goes straight to voicemail. “Bastard,” I hiss, throwing my phone into my purse.
The receptionist tips her head, an amused glint in her eyes. “Like I said, you’ll need an appointment to talk with Mr. Grant.”
“Mr. Grant had me sign some documents a couple of days ago. I want to see them,” I demand. “I’m not leaving until I do.”
Some people exiting the elevator look over at my raised voice. The receptionist huffs and picks up the phone.
“Mr. Marks? There’s a woman here making a scene. She says she knows Mr. Grant. She says she wants to see some papers he asked her to sign. I can call security?”
She looks at me from beneath her brows, nodding at whatever he says. “Name?”
“Ava Roberts,” I repeat what I’ve already told her twice.
“Ava—” She snaps her mouth shut, listening, “…Yes, Mr. Marks.” She places the phone down. “He’s finishing up in his office, then he’ll see you. Take a seat.”
“Who’s Mr. Marks?”
“Atlantic Airways’ CFO.”
“Thanks for yourhelp.” I give her a tight smile, then stride straight past the desk.
“You can’t go back there!” She flies to her feet, but I’m already breaking into a jog down the hallway, rushing past curious faces as I read the signs on the doors.
I turn a corner, my heart clenching painfully as I rush past a giant office with the nameJet Grant, CEOon the door. I don’t have time to take in the opulentoffice behind the glass as I run past. I bet it’s full of arrogant wanky trophies and flashy art.
Fake bullshit. All fake.
Just like him.
The door ahead of me has a shiny name plaque withHayden Markson it. I burst through it, causing the man inside the room to rise to his feet behind the meeting table, his eyes widening in surprise.
“You must be Ava.” He breaks into a grin, two rows of perfect white teeth flashing. “I’m Hayden.” He advances, holding out his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I snap without shaking it. “Where is he?”
His brows rise. “Jet? He’s in New York.”
“I’m here, Ava.” A familiar, deep voice cuts in, coming from the laptop on the table.
I stalk over to it.
“What the actual fuck? You’re really in New York?” I cry, recognizing The Songbird hotel’s décor behind him.
He runs a hand over his jaw. “I’m here for a meeting.” His voice is devoid of emotion, his usually bright eyes dim.
