Chapter 1 — Six Weeks to Ruin

The email arrives at 9:12 a.m., which is rude, considering I haven’t even finished my first coffee.

By 9:14, I’ve read it three times.

By 9:16, I’m seriously considering whether prison food is better than bankruptcy.

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Following the recent acquisition of Westbridge Hospitality Group by Blackwood Capital, we regret to inform you that all external marketing agreements are being reviewed and consolidated.

As a result, your current contract will be terminated effective immediately, subject to the applicable provisions of our agreement.

We appreciate your contributions and wish you continued success.

Continued success.

That’s a lovely way to tell someone you’ve just pushed her off a cliff.

I stare at the screen of my laptop, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. Perhaps an invitation to renegotiate. A temporary suspension. A particularly cruel April Fools’ joke in October.

No such luck.

“Well,” I whisper. “Shit.”

Morgan Creative occupies the third floor of a converted warehouse in Brooklyn. We have exposed brick walls, oversized windows, and a coffee machine that makes noises like a dying animal. On good days, I call it charming.

Today, it looks like the kind of office people pack into cardboard boxes while pretending not to cry.

I open our financial spreadsheet.

Then I close it.

Then I open it again, because apparently I’m a masochist.

Westbridge accounts for sixty-three percent of our revenue. Sixty-three. Not thirty. Not twenty. The kind of percentage that allows an accountant to use phrases like serious concerns about ongoing viability while maintaining a perfectly straight face.

We’ve spent three years building this business.

Three years of late nights, rejected pitches, unpaid weekends, and convincing clients that a small creative agency can deliver better results than companies with marble reception desks.

And one acquisition has apparently made all of that irrelevant.

The office door swings open.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

Sophie Ramirez enters carrying two coffees and a paper bag from the bakery downstairs. Her dark curls are piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a bright yellow blazer that should be illegal before ten in the morning.

She stops when she sees my face.

“Oh, God. Who died?”

“Our financial future.”

She lowers the coffees onto my desk.

“That’s dramatic, even for you.”

I turn the laptop toward her.

She reads.

Her smile disappears.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

She pulls up a chair.

“Is this real?”

“Unless someone hacked the Westbridge corporate email system to ruin my Monday.”

“Can they do that?”

“Apparently they can do whatever the hell they want.”

Sophie reads the message again, slower this time.

“Effective immediately? They can’t just cancel without notice.”

“They can send the notice. Whether they can legally do what they’re claiming is another question.”

“What about the termination clause?”

“Thirty days, depending on the circumstances. I already emailed our lawyer.”

She nods, but neither of us looks particularly reassured.

Thirty days of payments won’t save an agency that’s just lost almost two-thirds of its revenue.

“Okay,” she says. “How bad?”

I rotate the laptop back toward me and bring up the spreadsheet.

“Six weeks.”

“Six weeks of what?”

“Money.”

She blinks.

“Eva.”

“That’s how long we can cover payroll, rent, software subscriptions, and everything else without replacing the Westbridge revenue.”

“Six weeks?”

“Five and a half if the printer breaks again.”

She leans back in her chair.

For once in her life, Sophie has nothing to say.

Outside, Brooklyn carries on with its ordinary Monday morning. A delivery truck honks. Someone laughs on the sidewalk. Across the street, a man walks three dogs while talking into his phone.

The world has clearly failed to appreciate the magnitude of my personal disaster.

“We could freeze the freelance budget,” Sophie says eventually.

“Already done.”

“Postpone the new equipment?”

“Done.”

“Renegotiate the lease?”

“I’ll call this afternoon.”

She hesitates.

“We might have to talk about staffing.”

My stomach tightens.

“No.”

“Eva—”

“No.”

“We have three employees. Three people with salaries, insurance, and actual lives.”

“I know exactly how many people we employ, Sophie.”

“Then you know we can’t keep paying everyone if the money runs out.”

I look through the glass partition separating my office from the main workspace.

Jason is laughing at something on his monitor. Priya has headphones on, concentrating on a design. Ben is assembling mock-ups for a presentation we were supposed to give Westbridge on Thursday.

Three people who trusted us when we promised that Morgan Creative was growing.

Three people who took a chance on a small company instead of accepting safer jobs somewhere else.

“I’m not firing anyone today,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

“And I’m not giving up without a fight.”

Sophie studies me for a moment, then reaches for her coffee.

“Fine. We fight. But preferably without getting arrested.”

“I make no promises.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She tears a croissant in half and pushes one piece toward me.

I take it, although eating feels like an insult to the occasion.

“Who actually bought Westbridge?” she asks.

“Blackwood Capital.”

She freezes with her coffee halfway to her mouth.

“Wait. That Blackwood?”

I open a new browser tab.

“Apparently there’s a famous one?”

Sophie looks at me as though I’ve just admitted I don’t know who the president is.

“Alexander Blackwood? The billionaire?”

“I try not to keep track of billionaires. It gets depressing.”

“Eva, the man owns half of Manhattan.”

“That sounds excessive.”

“He’s everywhere. Financial magazines, business conferences, those ridiculous articles about the world’s most eligible bachelors.”

I type his name into the search bar.

His photograph appears immediately.

Oh.

Well.

That’s unfortunate.

Because the man responsible for destroying my business is offensively attractive.

Dark hair, neatly styled without looking as though he spent an hour in front of a mirror. Sharp cheekbones. A straight nose. A mouth that seems physically incapable of smiling.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

But it’s his eyes that catch my attention.

Gray. Cold. Direct.

The photographer has captured him looking straight into the camera, and somehow he manages to make a still photograph feel like an accusation.

I scroll past another picture.

Then another.

“This is him?”

Sophie leans over my shoulder.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Looks like someone forgot to tell him he’s allowed to enjoy being rich.”

“He’s worth about four billion dollars.”

“Four billion?”

“Give or take.”

I glance around our office.

With four billion dollars, I could replace the coffee machine.

Possibly twice.

An article describes Blackwood’s aggressive acquisition strategy. Another praises his ability to identify underperforming companies and transform them into profitable investments.

A third calls him the most ruthless dealmaker on Wall Street.

“Charming,” I mutter.

“What?”

“He buys businesses, cuts everything he considers unnecessary, and gets applauded for it.”

“That’s private equity, Eva.”

“Well, private equity can kiss my ass.”

Sophie laughs despite herself.

I continue reading.

Alexander Blackwood, thirty-eight, founder and chief executive of Blackwood Capital. Self-made billionaire. Unmarried. Rarely photographed with the same woman twice.

Apparently, America finds emotional unavailability extremely attractive when combined with expensive real estate.

“Why would someone like him care about a little marketing agency?” Sophie asks.

“He wouldn’t.”

“Exactly. Our contract was probably just another line in a spreadsheet.”

I look at the termination email again.

We appreciate your contributions.

No name. No conversation. Not even the courtesy of a telephone call.

Just a decision made somewhere above our heads by people who will never have to worry about making payroll.

Something hot and unpleasant settles in my chest.

Anger, mostly.

With a generous helping of panic.

“I want to speak to him.”

Sophie stares.

“Who?”

“Alexander Blackwood.”

She blinks twice.

Then bursts out laughing.

I’m not laughing.

Her smile fades.

“Oh, you’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“Eva, you can’t just call a billionaire and ask him to explain himself.”

“Why not?”

“Because billionaires have assistants. And security. And assistants for their security.”

“Then I’ll send an email.”

“He probably gets ten thousand emails a day.”

“I’ll use capital letters.”

She gives me the look she reserves for situations involving either terrible ideas or expired dairy products.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

I’m about to respond when something catches my eye.

A news article.

New York’s Elite Gather Tuesday for Annual Metropolitan Arts Foundation Gala.

Underneath the headline is a photograph of Alexander Blackwood standing beside a woman in a silver evening gown.

The article mentions that Blackwood Capital is one of the event’s principal sponsors.

I sit up.

“Tomorrow.”

Sophie frowns.

“What?”

“Tomorrow night. He’s attending the Metropolitan Arts Foundation Gala.”

“And?”

I turn toward her slowly.

“Remember the invitation from Daniel?”

Her expression changes.

“No.”

“Daniel Mercer. The hospitality consultant. He invited us last month.”

“Eva.”

“I told him I couldn’t go because we had the Westbridge presentation.”

“Eva, no.”

I search through my inbox.

There it is.

A digital invitation, a seating confirmation, and an almost embarrassingly enthusiastic message from Daniel reminding me that the gala would be an excellent networking opportunity.

My name is on the guest list.

I look at Sophie.

She closes her eyes.

“You’re going to do something stupid.”

“I’m going to network.”

“With the man who just canceled our biggest contract?”

“That’s an excellent conversation starter.”

“He’s going to have you thrown out.”

“Only if I misbehave.”

“Eva.”

“Sophie.”

She rubs her forehead.

“You cannot confront a billionaire in the middle of a charity gala.”

“Of course not.”

She relaxes slightly.

“I’ll wait until after the appetizers.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Apparently I’m also unemployed in six weeks, so I have time to work on my personality.”

She groans.

But she doesn’t tell me to stay home.

That’s the thing about Sophie. She knows when an idea is terrible, and she also knows when I’ve already made up my mind.

“Promise me one thing,” she says.

“Depends.”

“No throwing drinks.”

“Fine.”

“No yelling.”

“I’ll try.”

“And absolutely no threatening anyone.”

I consider that.

“Can I be sarcastic?”

“Like I could stop you.”

I grin for the first time all morning.

“Then we’re good.”

By seven that evening, the office is empty.

I’ve spent the day calling prospective clients, reviewing contracts, and pretending everything is normal whenever one of our employees walks past my desk.

My lawyer has confirmed that Westbridge may owe us a termination payment.

Wonderful.

Perhaps I’ll frame the check before using it to pay the electric bill.

I shut down my laptop and retrieve the invitation from my bag.

Then I look at the black garment bag hanging behind my office door.

Inside is the only evening gown I own.

I bought it two years ago for an awards ceremony where Morgan Creative won absolutely nothing, although the champagne was excellent.

Black silk. Simple neckline. Open back.

It cost a ridiculous amount of money, and I justified the purchase by telling myself it was an investment in my professional future.

Turns out I might finally get my money’s worth.

My phone vibrates.

A message from Sophie.