The morning air was cold, but the air inside the Ashford Global headquarters was freezing. Sloane stood in the lobby, her emerald gala dress from the night before hidden under a trench coat she'd grabbed in a rush. She hadn't slept. Her eyes were burning, and the weight of the "forerunner" responsibility felt like an iron yoke on her neck.
She had come here to save the files. To prove it was all a mistake. But as the glass doors slid open, she didn't see the usual bowing receptionists or the eager interns.
She saw chaos.
FBI agents were everywhere, marking boxes with thick black ink. But it wasn't the feds that made Sloane's stomach turn,it was the employees.
"Sloane? You shouldn't be here," a voice called out.
It was Marcus, her father's Senior VP. A man who had sat at their dinner table every Christmas for ten years. A man who had told Sloane just last week that she was "the future of the industry."
Now, he was clutching a cardboard box filled with his personal desk items, scurrying toward the exit like a rat leaving a sinking ship.
"Marcus, wait," Sloane said, reaching for his arm. "The server room—we need to back up the logistics data for the Moretti contract. If we can prove the cargo was vetted—"
Marcus pulled his arm away as if her touch was toxic. "There is no 'we,' Sloane. Your father didn't just break the law; he bankrupt the pension fund. My pension. Do you have any idea what they're going to do to us?"
"He didn't know—"
"He knew!" Marcus snapped, his face reddening. The mask of the loyal servant had slipped, revealing a sneering, bitter man. "And you probably did, too. You were his shadow, weren't you? The little genius-in-waiting. I hope you saved some of that jewelry, Princess, because you're going to need it for bail."
Sloane flinched. She looked around the lobby.
There was Sarah, the head of PR, who used to send Sloane flowers every birthday. She was currently talking to a federal agent, pointing toward her father's private elevator with a look of eager cooperation.
There was Mr. Henderson, the janitor her father had paid for his daughter's surgery. He wouldn't even look her in the eye, spitting on the floor as he walked past her with a trash bag.
The people who had licked her father's feet for decades were now the ones sharpening the knives.
"Out of the way!" a technician shouted, nearly shoulder-checking her as he hauled a server rack out of the main office.
Nobody was being hurt physically, but every word, every cold shoulder, was a lash against Sloane's skin. She felt smaller than she ever had in her life. She was twenty-two, a degree in her hand and a vision in her head, and it was all being dismantled in front of her.
"Looking for something, Sloane?"
The voice was like a low vibration at the base of her skull. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
Dante Moretti stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city he was about to inherit. He looked perfect—not a hair out of place, a dark navy suit that probably cost more than the cars the employees were currently packing their lives into.
"What are you doing here, Dante?" Sloane whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "The feds haven't cleared the building for visitors."
"I'm not a visitor," Dante said, turning to face her. He held up a sleek, black tablet. "I'm the new primary lienholder. My legal team spent the last six hours buying up the Ashford debt for pennies on the dollar. Technically, you're standing on my carpet."
Sloane's breath hitched. "You... you bought the firm?"
"I bought the corpse of the firm," Dante corrected, stepping closer. He looked at her disheveled hair, the smudge of mascara under her eye, and the way she was shaking. He didn't look sorry. He looked like a man admiring his handiwork. "I'm going to strip the assets, sell the ships, and turn this building into a Moretti warehouse."
"You can't do that," Sloane gasped. "People work here. Families—"
"Families like yours?" Dante mocked, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp cruelty. He leaned in, his shadow engulfing her. "Your father played a dirty game with my money, Sloane. He thought he was smarter than the Morettis. Now, he's in a cell, and you're standing in a lobby full of people who hate your guts."
He looked around the room at the employees who were now openly staring and whispering about Sloane.
"Look at them," Dante commanded, his hand catching her chin and forcing her to look at the hostile faces. "These are the people who used to worship you. See how fast they turn when the money stops flowing? You were never their leader, Sloane. You were just their meal ticket."
Sloane felt a tear prick her eye, but she forced it back. She wouldn't cry in front of him.
"Get your hands off me," she hissed.
Dante let go, but he didn't move back. "Make sure you take your personal things today. By five o'clock, the locks are changing. And Sloane?"
She stopped, her hand on the heavy glass door.
"Don't bother calling the lawyers. I hired them all this morning. You're on your own."
Sloane pushed through the doors, the sound of the office, the shredders, the shouting, the weeping, fading behind her. She stood on the sidewalk, the weight of the Ashford name finally, truly breaking her.