THE INTERVIEW

Six Months Later.

The Boston skyline sparkled brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Northbridge executive boardroom.

I sat at the head of the long walnut table.

I wasn’t wearing a cheap blazer anymore.

I wore a tailored, slate-gray suit that fit perfectly.

The remaining board members—the ones who hadn’t been indicted by the FBI—sat silently, waiting for me to speak.

“The third-quarter projections are up twelve percent,” I said, closing the file in front of me. “The public trusts us again. Transparency works.”

One of the older executives nodded respectfully.

“You navigated the crisis brilliantly, Ms. Carter.”

“I didn’t navigate it,” I corrected smoothly. “I destroyed it. Now we build something better.”

I stood up.

“Meeting adjourned.”

The executives filed out quickly, leaving me alone in the massive room.

I walked over to the window, looking out over the city.

Six months.

The FBI investigation had ripped Boston high society apart.

Arthur Sterling was facing life in federal prison. Dozens of corrupt politicians were gone.

The Whitmore mafia family was completely dismantled.

And Northbridge had been reborn as a legitimate, clean corporation under my control.

I touched the silver locket resting against my collarbone.

My mother was safe. She was living in a beautiful brownstone in Beacon Hill, knitting sweaters and spoiling Marcus, who had become like an adopted son to her.

Everything was perfect.

Except for one thing.

The door to the boardroom clicked open.

I didn’t turn around.

“You forgot your portfolio, Marcus,” I said, assuming my head of security had returned.

“I don’t own a portfolio.”

My heart stopped.

I spun around.

Standing in the doorway, wearing a sharp navy suit, looking as frustratingly handsome as the day I met him, was Jack.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Jack?” I whispered.

He smiled, leaning against the doorframe.

“I like the corner office. Suits you.”

I closed the distance between us in a dead sprint.

I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest.

He caught me, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist, lifting me completely off the floor.

He buried his face in my hair, holding me like he was afraid I would vanish.

“How?” I cried, pulling back to look at him. “The judge denied bail. They said you were looking at ten years!”

“I was,” Jack said, setting me down gently, though he didn’t let go of my waist.

“But the FBI offered me a deal.”

“What deal?”

“I spent the last six months testifying before a grand jury,” Jack explained. “I gave them every offshore account, every safe house, and every hidden asset Arthur’s crew ever owned.”

He smiled down at me.

“In exchange, the DOJ granted me full immunity. I’m a free man, Emily. The slate is entirely clean.”

Tears streamed down my face.

I laughed, wiping them away.

“So you’re unemployed.”

“Technically,” Jack grinned. “I gave my company to a very aggressive marketing coordinator.”

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a brown paper bag.

He handed it to me.

I opened it.

Inside was half a turkey sandwich.

“I was wondering,” Jack said, his voice dropping to a low, warm murmur, “if you were currently hiring.”