Too Late, Mr. Forbes: Watch Me Shine

The next evening, Hayden walked out of the Vanguard Media building. Her neck was stiff from staring at spreadsheets all day.

She stepped onto the curb, raising her hand to hail a cab.

A massive, sleek black Maybach glided silently to the curb, stopping inches from her toes. The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly.

Jamie Clark sat in the back seat, illuminated by the soft amber reading light. He wore a charcoal suit, looking perfectly relaxed.

"Get in," Jamie said. It wasn't a request.

Hayden hesitated, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. She'd left the old black suitcase at the motel that morning before work—the room was still paid through the end of the week, and it was safer there than dragging it into the office on her first day. "I'm just going home, Jamie."

"We need to discuss the fallout from your article," Jamie said smoothly. "Get in."

Hayden opened the heavy door and slid onto the plush leather seat. The door pulled itself shut with a soft click. The cabin was incredibly warm.

Jamie reached into the cup holder and handed her a plastic cup. Condensation dripped down the sides. "Iced Americano. No sugar. Just how you used to drink it in the library."

Hayden took the cup. The cold plastic felt grounding against her warm palms. "Thank you."

Jamie's eyes scanned her face, lingering on the dark shadows under her eyes. "You look exhausted. My driver is taking us to a different address. You shouldn't be staying in that motel."

Hayden stiffened. Her spine went rigid against the leather. "How do you know where I'm staying?"

"I own a media empire, Hayden. I know everything," Jamie said, his voice gentle but firm. "The Forbes PR machine is going to come after you for that article. Vanguard protects its assets."

The Maybach didn't head downtown. It pulled into the underground, private garage of a five-star luxury hotel in the Upper East Side.

Jamie handed her a heavy gold keycard. "Top floor. The penthouse is secured. No one comes up without my authorization."

Hayden looked at the card in her hand. She was exhausted. She'd managed to wire the partial payment to the hospital yesterday—an old informant had come through, though it had drained every favor she had left—but Aniya's next treatment cycle was still hanging over her head, and August was hunting her. She looked up at Jamie.

Jamie leaned in slightly. His dark eyes locked onto hers. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I've got you."

The tension in Hayden's shoulders finally snapped. She nodded, taking the card.

Across the city, the atmosphere inside the Forbes Tower penthouse office was toxic.

August stood behind his massive mahogany desk. His chest heaved. His tie was ripped loose, hanging crookedly around his neck.

Miles Pryce, his executive assistant, stood near the door, sweating through his shirt.

"The motel is empty, sir," Miles stammered. "She checked out this morning. Her suitcase was gone too. No forwarding address. "

August's hands gripped the edge of the desk. His knuckles were bone-white. "Find her. I don't care what it costs. Pull the city traffic cameras."

"Sir," Miles swallowed hard. "One of our private investigators pulled footage from outside the Vanguard building. She... she got into a car."

August's head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, feral. "Whose car?"

"Jamie Clark's, sir. The Maybach is registered to his private fleet."

A sickening sound echoed in the room. August's teeth ground together so hard his jaw looked like it might snap. The vein in his neck bulged.

Jealousy, hot and violent, ripped through his chest. Jamie Clark. His biggest rival.

"Get legal on the phone," August roared, his voice shaking the glass walls. "I want Vanguard Media buried in lawsuits by tomorrow morning. I want them bled dry until they hand her over!"