Chapter 2

Ginger' s fingers closed around the envelope with surprising strength. The rough paper scraped against my skin.

"What are you doing?" I cried, reaching for it. "Give that back!"

"I' m doing my job," she sneered, holding the envelope out of my reach. Her eyes were bright with a cold, vicious glee. "I' m protecting Mr. Moran from trash."

She looked around the vast, open lobby. Her gaze fell on a door marked 'Staff Lounge.'

"You think a cheap dress and a made-up story about a dying sister will get you a meeting with a billionaire?" she said, her voice a low growl. "You people are all the same. Pathetic."

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"Let go of me!" I tried to pull away, but she was strong.

"We' re going to have a little chat," she said, dragging me toward the lounge door. "I' m going to teach you a lesson about bothering important people."

She pulled me into the small, windowless room and shoved the door shut. The click of the lock echoed in the sudden silence. The room smelled of stale coffee and cleaning supplies.

She threw me against a counter. The sharp edge dug into my back, and I gasped in pain.

"Please, just listen to me," I pleaded.

"Oh, I' ve heard enough," she said. She held up the manila envelope. "Let' s see what kind of garbage you' ve cooked up."

With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore the envelope open.

"No!" I lunged for it, but she pushed me back hard.

I stumbled and fell to the floor, my head hitting the linoleum with a dull thud. For a moment, the room spun.

She didn' t even glance at me. She pulled out the contents-Alia' s entire medical history. The letters from doctors, the test results, the detailed surgical plan that represented our last hope.

"Look at all this," she said with a theatrical sigh, scattering the papers onto the floor. "So much effort. Really, you should have tried acting. You might have been good at it."

She picked up the top page, the one with Alia' s picture on it.

" 'Alia Allen,' " she read aloud, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. " 'Terminal diagnosis.' So dramatic."

She looked down at me, sprawled on the floor amidst the scattered records of my sister' s suffering.

"You know what I think?" she said, crouching down so her face was level with mine. "I think you' re a liar. And I hate liars."

Her hand shot out and slapped me across the face.

The sting was sharp, shocking. My head snapped to the side. I lay there, stunned, tasting blood in my mouth.

"That' s for lying," she said calmly.

Then she began to methodically tear the papers. Each rip was a spear in my heart. The doctor' s referral. The surgical proposal. The page with the cost breakdown. She tore them into smaller and smaller pieces.

"And that' s for thinking you could fool me."

She gathered the confetti of our last hope in her hands.

"My baby sister..." I whispered, the words choked with tears. "You don' t understand..."

"I understand that you are trying to trap a rich man," she said, her voice rising with a strange, obsessive fervor. "You think you can come here and get your claws into him? I have dedicated my life to Damon. I am the one who stands by his side. Not some piece of gutter trash in a cheap dress."

She stood up and walked over to the industrial trash can in the corner. She held the fistfuls of shredded paper over it.

"Please, no," I sobbed, trying to push myself up. My body ached. My head throbbed.

She smiled, a truly terrifying, triumphant smile.

And she let the pieces fall.

They fluttered down into the darkness of the bin. Gone. Everything was gone.

I stared at the trash can, my mind blank with horror. The delay. The doctor' s words echoed in my head. The window is closing.

Ginger wasn' t finished. She kicked at the remaining papers on the floor, smearing them with the heel of her expensive shoe.

Then she looked at my handbag, which had fallen beside me. She picked it up and emptied its contents onto the floor. A half-eaten granola bar, my keys, a worn wallet with twenty-seven dollars in it, and my old, cracked-screen phone.

She nudged the phone with her toe. "Trying to call for backup?"

"That' s my sister' s life you just threw in the trash," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that was starting to burn through the shock.

She laughed. It was a high, ugly sound. "Your sister' s life? Don' t be so melodramatic. It' s just paper."

She bent down, her face close to mine again. "The message is what' s important. And the message is: stay away from Damon Moran. He is mine."