Page 1 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

ONE

SHAE

Ibite back a snarl as I stare down at the sniveling man in the chair across from my Herman Miller desk.

“Please don’t cry, for the love of God,” I snap.

I’d feel bad for Derrick if he weren’t a dick to every woman in the office.

Or if he hadn’t stolen nearly five-hundred-thousand dollars ofmymoney.

Sexism is intolerable enough, but to steal from me?

Fuck. No.

The man sniffs and wipes at his face with the back of his hand. My assistant to my right makes a small sound of disgust, and my business partner, Zane, grunts from where he lounges in the corner of my office. Zane rarely comes into the office, choosing to show up for board meetings and leaving me to manage the business. Except in cases of major fraud and money laundering with our employees, I guess.

“Liv—”

“That’s Ms.Rivers, Derrick. You’d do well to remember that.” I lean back in my leather chair, steepling my hands so my fire-engine red nails click together with a delicatetap.

“Ms.Rivers, after all I’ve done for Orisun?—”

“I’ll admit, you’ve brought in a lot of good investments for us. But you’ve also done great financial and reputational harm.”

I bare my teeth.

“I’m being nice. Generous, even. Soplease,” more smiling, “sign the severance package and leave. You can put this behind you.”

Derrick sniffs, and that’s when Zane unfurls all six feet of goodness from the wingback chair. I want to smile at the memory of him bending me over that exact chair just two weeks ago.

But all that comes to my face is a sneer.

“All right, Derrick,” Zane says. “We’ve agreed not to press charges as long as you agree not to work for any other venture capital firm in North America.”

Not that he has a choice. I’ve already made a few well-placed calls, and he’s blocked from every firm from New York City to San Diego, and every FinTech startup that’s remotely like ours.

“We’ll be watching, and we will know if you break these conditions,” Zane says.

I don’t know how I got stuck playing Good Cop while Zane plays Bad Cop, and I’m not sure it’s fully working.

Derrick, who looks like Cuba Gooding Jr.inJerry Maguire—diamond stud earrings and all—flushes a shade of red I didn’t think possible.

Is this motherfucker about to have a heart attack? According to the office gossip I learned during our short investigation, he does enough cocaine to make it a risk.

I really need to clean house in HR, because this is a lot.

“This isn’t fair!” Derrick shouts.

I lift an eyebrow, staring him down.

“You siphoned nearly half a million dollars from Orisun, fromme,” I enunciate.

He stammers. “I mean, it wasn’tfrom you?—”

“Derrick,” I say with a sigh. I’m so over this conversation.

I nod at the termination agreement in his hand. It’s short and to the point, so there’s no reason for him to delay.