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Parker nods. “You don’t ever have to cross paths with him if you don’t want to, but if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t,” I snap.

Parker chuckles but continues, “You should try again.”

I don’t give him any response because I don’t know what to say to him, so I stand, holding out my hand. “I’ll see you Monday for the charity meeting. And don’t forget to have Peyton set up the plants I left in Owen’s office.”

“You aren’t coming to my birthday party?” Parker asks, clasping my hand and not letting me go.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I reply sadly.

Parker shakes his head, dropping my hand. “I understand.”

I spend the weekend punching things. Literally.

Everyone I know and love is at Parker’s birthday party, and I’m too chickenshit to face Owen, so instead, I punch holes all over my apartment until my knuckles are bleeding so badly that I’m dripping blood everywhere.

I really need to get myself a punching bag or start going to a new gym.

Declan paid off the apartment with CIA funds so I could stay here, but my salary probably can’t afford to redo all of the walls, so I finally stop, my anger mostly spent.

I’m attempting to wrap my knuckles when there’s a knock at the door.

I stop, dropping the wrapping material and grabbing my phone.

No messages.

Who would be here on a Saturday night at this hour?

I cautiously approach the door, halting my instinct to grab a knife. The doorman would never let anyone up that I didn’t know.

I crack the door to find livid green eyes glaring at me.

I step back so fast that I almost trip over my own bare feet.

Owen barrels into the apartment, not breaking eye contact as he practically yells, “You replaced yourself with Peyton fucking Radd!”

Oh shit.

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, and I smack my hand over my mouth to stop myself.

Owen’s eyes flare when he sees the blood, and I drop my hand, putting both of them behind me.

That’s when he finally looks around and notices the mess I made of the walls.

When his eyes meet mine again, they’ve softened, and there’s a hint of amusement in them.

“I don’t have a punching bag or a gym membership currently,” I spit out as a way of explanation.

“And why, Miss Riley, were you beating up your apartment?”

His low voice and close proximity have my body trembling. It’s completely inappropriate, but I cannot help it. How do I answer him? How do I tell him everything I’m feeling right now and before he walked through that door?

“I was angry,” I say, hoping that’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re angry? You’re the one who hired my assassin to be my personal assistant in your place.”

Somehow, I hold back the chuckle, but the smile I cannot help. “I had to, or he wouldn’t have testified.”