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RHAIM

I was hard at work—yes, really, for once—when Mrs. Armstrong knocked on my office door.

I knew it was her, because she would’ve announced anyone else with a call—and any reason she might have for interrupting me was dire. She knew my moods.

“What is it?” I asked, instead of telling her, “Come in.”

She opened the door and frowned. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news Mr. Selvaggio,” she began, and by the time she finished, I was standing.

I’d already lost one woman I loved—there was no way in hell I was going to lose another.

“It’s just that,” she said, and then held her phone out, where I could see a headline on one of our city’s many gossip sites, I recognized their color-scheme.

“Senator’s fiancée suicidal?” it asked, in twenty-point font.

“Fuck me,” I muttered, coming around the desk to take the phone from her. The article only mentioned anonymous sources, but they were clearly in the know.

“If it was just one, I would’ve ignored it—but there’s at least three others.”

“And there’ll be hundreds more by nightfall,” I muttered, handing her her phone back. She took it with a wince, and went away, closing the door behind her.

My private phone for Lia was in my pocket—but if I called or texted her, she might still be at lunch with those terrible women—who no doubt by now also knew. I’d met Maribeth on more than one occasion, she was the kind of woman who smiled like a debutant and gossiped like a defense contractor.

Lia had been blindsided today on purpose, I realized, growing more pissed by the second.

Who else had access to Lia’s information? It was entirely possible St. Clair’s team had a Sable of their own, working overtime.

But if so…why wait until now to leak it? Wouldn’t knowing Lia had a psych history have made them back out of the deal? Wouldn’t they have rather cut their losses in advance, rather than make St. Clair look like a lovesick fool?

That was what I didn’t understand: who was currently gaining from hurting Lia?

And then Lia’s phone in my pocket buzzed.

I’m fine. Keep working on the IPO.

I gave the phone a bitter smile, then glanced toward the window I’d marked her against.

If I had my way, the cleaners would never touch it.

And I was certain of one thing that Lia’s detractors didn’t know yet: underneath the silk, my little girl was made of steel.