Olivia’s Point of View

I closed the office door behind him and gestured toward the chair across from my desk. Joseph Thompson looked older than the teenager I remembered, taller, broader in the shoulders, but the scar on his cheek and the dark eyes were exactly the same.

He sat down slowly, glancing around at the framed magazine covers and the city view behind me. “Nice place,” he said quietly. “I’m proud of you, Olivia.”

I stayed standing. “You don’t get to say that. ...