The Rochefort Group building appeared ahead. Glass and steel. The place where she had rebuilt herself after everything fell apart. The place where she was no longer a consultant, no longer temporary, no longer waiting for permission to belong.
She was the Interim CEO.
She was Mrs. Rochefort.
She was the woman who had let Franz leave marks on her throat and then hidden them beneath silk and walked into a boardroom to defend him.
The car pulled into the underground garage. Franz cut the engine.
"Ready?" he asked.
She adjusted the scarf. "Yes."
The conference room was small. Informal check-in, not a full board meeting. Vincent attended via video—his face on a screen at the head of the table, his presence undiminished by the distance. His hair was thinner than it had been before the heart attack. His color was good. But he watched the room with the same sharp attention he had always had.
