Chapter 2

So, on Tuesday morning, I tied my hair into a simple ponytail, slipped on a pair of flats, and drove my silver Toyota Corolla—the most understated vehicle in our garage—setting off for work from our two-bedroom apartment in the West Village. That apartment was a "disguise" I had insisted on living in; in reality, it was merely the smallest of our twelve properties in Manhattan.

My direct superior was the Marketing Director, Catherine, a shrewd and capable woman who was friendly enough to me, the "newbie," provided I finished my work on time. My days at the Thorne Group were peaceful and regimented: clock in at nine, attend various meetings, analyze market data, create PowerPoint presentations, and grab lattes and croissants for lunch with colleagues at the coffee shop downstairs.

My colleagues liked me; they thought I was smart yet low-profile, and easy to get along with.

They invited me to Friday drinks at that Irish pub on Third Avenue. Every time, I would order a Gin and Tonic and listen to them complain about rent, roast their bosses, and discuss TV shows.

It was a marvelous feeling—a sense of reality, a feeling of earning respect through my own analytical and communication skills.

Julian strictly adhered to our agreement.

At the company, we were complete strangers. Once, we crossed paths in the elevator; he was surrounded by a flock of Vice Presidents. I whispered a quiet "Good morning, Mr. Thorne," and he simply gave a cold nod, his gaze not even lingering on me.

Yet that night, when he came home, he pressed me against the door and kissed me, his voice laced with laughter: "Today in the elevator, I almost couldn't stop myself from holding your hand."

"Well, you'll have to hold back," I bit his chin playfully. "Eleven months to go."