The champagne flute shattered against the marble floor three inches from my Louboutins. "You arrogant, condescending—" I didn't get to finish before Marcus Chen stepped closer, his six-foot-three frame towering over me in a way that should've been intimidating but only made my blood boil hotter. "Condescending?" His laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "Says the woman who just told the entire Silicon Valley elite that my latest acquisition was 'compensation for obvious inadequacies.'" "If the shoe fits." I smiled sweetly, aware that every phone in the Metropolitan Museum's Great Hall was pointed at us. By morning, we'd be trending. Again. Three months ago, I didn't know Marcus Chen existed. Now I couldn't escape him. It started at the TechForward Summit in Singapore. I'd given the keynote—my first as CEO of Whitmore Industries after my father's sudden retirement. Twenty-eight years old, the youngest woman to ever helm a Fortune 500 tech company, and I'd crushed it. The standing ovation still rang in my ears as I left the stage. Then he'd approached me at the after-party. "Impressive speech," he'd said, extending his hand. "Marcus Chen, Chen Dynamics." I'd recognized him immediately. Everyone in tech knew Marcus Chen—the boy genius who'd built a billion-dollar empire by thirty-two, known for hostile takeovers and ruthless business tactics. Also known for being devastatingly handsome in that infuriating way that made boardrooms forget he was there to destroy them. "Isla Whitmore." I'd shaken his hand, feeling an electric current I'd immediately dismissed as static. "And thank you, though I'm sure you could tell me exactly how to improve it." His smile had been wolfish. "Actually, I agreed with everything you said. Particularly the part about legacy companies needing to innovate or die." He'd leaned closer. "Tell me, does your father know you just called Whitmore Industries obsolete?" I should've walked away then. Instead, I'd matched his smile. "My father retired last month. I'm obsoleting us myself, from the inside out. Creative destruction. You'd understand." "I would." Something had flickered in his dark eyes—respect, maybe, or challenge. "Whitmore's been on my acquisition list for years. But I have to say, with you at the helm, it's suddenly much more interesting." "We're not for sale, Mr. Chen." "Everything's for sale, Ms. Whitmore. It's just a matter of price." That conversation had ended civilly enough. We'd even exchanged business cards, talked about potential collaboration. Then I'd discovered Chen Dynamics was developing quantum encryption technology—the exact same technology my team had been working on for eighteen months. And he was planning to launch two weeks before our scheduled release. Corporate espionage? Coincidence? I didn't care. I'd moved our launch up, worked my team around the clock, and beat him to market by seventy-two hours. His retaliatory move was buying out our biggest supplier. Mine was poaching his head of R&D. His was a scathing interview in TechCrunch calling my leadership "promising but ultimately derivative." Mine was this charity gala, where I'd perhaps had too much champagne and definitely too little patience. "You need to leave," Marcus said now, his voice low and dangerous. "Before you embarrass yourself further." "Embarrass myself?" I laughed, loud enough that heads turned. "You're the one who's been following me around all night like a puppy who can't decide whether to bite or beg." His jaw tightened. God, he was attractive when he was angry—all sharp cheekbones and barely restrained fury. I hated noticing. "Following you? Your ego is showing, Isla. I'm here because I donated two million dollars to children's literacy. You're here because you're desperate to prove you belong in a room full of people who actually built their empires instead of inheriting them." The words hit like a physical blow. He knew exactly where to strike. "At least I have an empire to inherit," I shot back. "What do you have? A company built on stolen ideas and hostile takeovers? You're not a builder, Marcus. You're a vulture." "And you're a child playing dress-up in daddy's office." I threw my own champagne at him. The golden liquid arced through the air in perfect slow motion, drenching his Tom Ford tuxedo, dripping down his face. The room went silent. Marcus didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at me with those dark eyes that promised retribution. "You're going to regret that," he said quietly. "Add it to the list of things I apparently should regret," I snapped, turning on my heel. I made it exactly three steps before his hand caught my wrist. "We're not done." "We never started." I yanked free, my skin burning where he'd touched me. "Stay away from me, Chen. And stay away from my company." I left him standing there, soaked and furious, while camera phones captured every second. By the time my car pulled up to my Tribeca penthouse, the video had seventeen million views. By morning, it would change everything.