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“I’ll make sure of it,” she says. “It won’t be hard. He’ll trust you to be discreet, because the only one in the family who wants a scandal even less than he does is secretive, antisocialyou. Just make sure she’s pleased with the new job arrangement. We need her leaving happy.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” She sighs wearily. I’m sure she doesn’t love being in the middle of this. Or being the messenger. Any more than I lovereceiving the message. “Then never mention her again, and you know Graysen won’t, either.”

“Deal.”

The thing is, I also need Quinn to be happy. So she won’t ever feel the need to mention Darla, or the fact that I blackmailed her, again.

But fuck the Crystal. I’ll arrange a new job for her where I don’t have to worry about Graysen’s rules, and it will go without saying that I could take it away. She’ll know I still have the upper hand.

I’ll make sure she knows that it’s in her best interest to take the new job and run.

And I’ll still have control.

I pick at the diamond bracelet in my pocket as I leave Savannah’s office.

I’d planned to leave no loose ends with Quinn after our dinner, so none of this could ever come back to fuck me. That plan meant never seeing Quinn again.

But now I have to.

One last time.

I need to handle this quick, keep it professional, and get it over with, then put the whole thing behind me. Then I really won’t see her again, which I keep telling myself is what I want.

I don’t like loose ends. Relationships are all or nothing, and all is way too messy. I prefer to be alone.

And I don’t need these incessant thoughts of her.

By tonight, I’ll have cut all ties with her; severed all loose ends.

Black.

White.

I’ll kill this budding obsession when I see her one last time, and I’ll give her back her bracelet.

And my family will never find out the truth about Darla.

Chapter 8

Quinn

I’m deep in myLorraine Foreverplaylist, ridiculously dance-mopping the floor of the bakery to Gino Vannelli’s “Black Cars” like a woman who thinks she’s completely alone, when I realize that I am not.

Because the front door is open, and a dark figure is standing in it. Staring at me.

I shriek.

The music is so loud, I didn’t even hear the electronic jingle that signals the front door opening. Or notice the man in black who opened it to watch me dance-mop. Like a freaking stalker.

It’s Harlan Vance.

He frowns at me, and my stomach twists into a hungry little knot.

I slap at my phone, which is sitting on the counter, to shut the music off. It’s Thursday afternoon, the bakery just closed, and I’m the only one still in. How did he even know I was here?

I haven’t seen him or heard from him since dinner at his place on Saturday night. I really never expected to see him again.But maybe some small part of me knew—or at least hoped—that I would.