Page 1 of The Billionaire's Redemption

CHAPTER 1

NATALIE

My heels clickbriskly across the lobby’s marble floor, echoing between glass panels and chrome fixtures. July’s morning light bleeds through towering windows, catching the sharp edges of minimalist decor, while the air conditioning battles against New York’s oppressive summer heat. Suits mill about, murmuring into phones with the urgency only a Monday morning in Manhattan can inspire. I don’t look at them. I just keep moving, contempt burning in my chest like acid.

Three whole years working at Thalvyn Maritime without so much as a sick leave, and when I finally go on vacation, Braxton Thompson decides to sell the fucking place. I’m supposed to be in Hawaii right now, my body coated in sunscreen, my red hair wet from the pool, drunk and blissfully happy under the Pacific sun.

But no.

I barely even touched a drink before my assistant Layla called me in a panic-stricken state, her voice cracking through the phone like breaking glass.

Selling the company?

To whom?

Why?

The elevator dings, and I step inside just as a familiar voice calls out behind me.

“Natalie!”

I look over my shoulder to see a blonde woman hurrying towards me, her designer heels clicking frantically against the polished floor. The edges of her short hair barely brush against her shoulder as she follows me into the elevator, her chestnut brown eyes filled with distress. “What are you doing back here? I thought you went on vacation this week.”

“I landed in Hawaii yesterday,” I say darkly, pushing the button to the fifteenth floor. “Had to get the first flight out of paradise because Layla called me. They’re selling the company?!”

“Not selling.” Iris’s reply is grim, her usually perfect composure cracking at the edges. “It’s already sold. Another company acquired us.”

“Who is it?”

Iris shrugs, looking equally frustrated as she adjusts her silk blouse. “Aside from the board of directors, nobody else has been informed. I’m the head of marketing, and even I don’t know. I just received an email last night to put a hold on all the projects. Everything has to be re-approved by the new CEO. Were you called back?”

I shake my head as the elevator glides upward, the city sprawling below us through the glass walls. “No, I didn’t want to come back and find out there was a new head of human resources. And if there’s been an acquisition, depending on who the new CEO is, a lot of people will be losing their jobs. I need to be here.”

Iris lets out a heavy sigh, her breath fogging the polished steel doors momentarily. “You take your job very seriously. Idoubt you would have been fired, but you’re right. The rumor mill has been working around the clock since Friday. Seems that Thompson prepared a list of all the incompetent employees and handed it over to the new owner.”

“His name better have been on the top of that list,” I grumble, feeling the familiar surge of irritation that Braxton Thompson always inspired. “The man couldn’t lift a stapler without calling one of his five assistants. He was barely running the company as it was. The only thing he was good at was ogling everything in a skirt.”

I catch Iris smoothing down the creases in her pants at my words, her smile hardening. “He once told me I should wear a skirt because pants were too manly.”

I scoff, the sound sharp in the confined space. “He tried to create a company policy banning pants for the female staff and insisting on skirts as formal wear—and even those had to be less than a certain length. The man was a walking, talking lawsuit waiting to happen.”

A sigh escapes me as I exchange a look with her, both of us sharing the weight of too many uncomfortable encounters. “Maybe the new CEO will be less focused on why our skirts are past our knees and more on the quality of work we provide.”

“We can only hope.” Iris casts her gaze heavenward as the elevator chimes.

I get off on the fifteenth floor and head to my office, the familiar scent of coffee and copy machine toner greeting me like an old friend. When I enter, I see Layla at her desk in the waiting room, talking in a hushed whisper with two other men from my department. Her posture screams gossip, and I’m not in the mood.

“Henry, George, back to your seats.”

Both of them look at me with wide eyes, and George splutters, “Miss Thorne! You’re back?”

“Your skills of deduction remain unparalleled, George.” Mytone is dry as desert sand. “To your seat. This isn’t the time for gossip around the water cooler.”

“But we’re not around the—” Henry begins, but one look from me has him scurrying back, followed by his companion like mice fleeing a cat.

“Well?” I continue into my office as Layla trails behind me, her anxiety practically radiating off her in waves. Her long dark hair is braided perfectly, not a strand out of place, her glasses more for show than necessity. Layla looks prim and proper, and from the relief washing over her face, she’s grateful to see me.

“The memo was sent out just before closing time yesterday,” she tells me nervously, wringing her hands. “Mr. Thompson had already left the building by then. All the department heads went to his office, but he wasn’t there. Can he do that? Is this legal?”