Gianna was convinced she had done an exemplary job today, even as she bent over the porcelain toilet in her private executive restroom and vomited for the second time.
When the spasms finally eased, she remained there for a moment, one hand braced against the cool marble counter, the other pressed to her stomach.
This is worth it.
She repeated the words silently, like a mantra.
Every horrible second of this—the nausea, the nerves, the degrading memory of having to get close to Noah Newman—would be worth it if it meant protecting the people she loved. If it meant tearing down Noah and every rotten pillar holding up his empire.
Slowly, she flushed the toilet and rose to her feet.
The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked pale, her normally glowing complexion a shade too white. She turned on the tap, rinsed her mouth thoroughly, then washed her hands with almost obsessive care, scrubbing away the lingering taste and the unpleasant memories attached to it.
