Amelia’s POV

I sit in the conference room at seven-fifteen AM, my coffee untouched, my stomach churning with dread.

James Hartwell sits at the head of the table. To his right, three executives from Crane Enterprises—sharp suits, sharper expressions, watching me like predators sizing up prey. I don’t know their names. Didn’t know they’d be here.

This isn’t a meeting. It’s an interrogation.

“Thank you for coming early, Ms. Hart.” Hartwell’s voice is pleasant, but there’s ...