My boss just fired me for sleeping with him. Except I didn't. "Clear your desk by five, Miss Chen." Damien Cross doesn't even look up from his laptop as he says it. His jaw is tight, that perfect CEO mask firmly in place. "HR will process your termination paperwork." I stand frozen in his corner office, the Seattle skyline glittering behind him like we're in some twisted romance novel. Except this isn't romance. This is a nightmare. "You're serious." My voice comes out flat. Disbelieving. "Completely." "Damien—" "Mr. Cross," he corrects, ice in every syllable. "We're not on familiar terms anymore." Anymore. Like we ever were. Like the past six months of late nights working side-by-side, of coffee runs and inside jokes and that one moment last week when our hands touched over a contract and the air between us went electric—like any of that meant something. "Someone started a rumor," I say, forcing myself to stay calm. Professional. "That's all this is. A lie someone told—" "I've seen the evidence, Aria." That stops me cold. "What evidence?" Finally, he looks at me. Those steel-gray eyes that used to soften when I walked into a room now look right through me. "The hotel reservation. The photos. Your signature on the check-in." My heart plummets. "What hotel? I haven't been to any—" "The Belmont. Last Friday night. Room 2847." He slides a folder across his mahogany desk. "Your credit card. Your ID. Security footage of you in the lobby." I grab the folder with shaking hands. Open it. And there I am. Sort of. A woman who looks like me—same dark hair, same height, same build—walking through a hotel lobby in a red dress I've never owned. The timestamp reads 11:47 PM. Last Friday. When I was at home. Alone. Binge-watching cooking shows in my ratty pajamas because I had the flu. "This isn't me," I whisper. "Your credit card statement says otherwise." I flip to the next page. There it is—a charge for six hundred and forty-seven dollars at the Belmont Hotel. On my card. On a night I never left my apartment. "Someone's framing me." I look up at him, desperate for him to hear me. To believe me. "Damien, please. I was sick last Friday. I didn't go anywhere. I can show you my pharmacy receipts, my—" "Enough." He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced precision. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I won't have my company's reputation dragged through the mud because my assistant decided to—" "Decided to what?" Anger flares hot in my chest. "Seduce you? Is that what you think this is?" His expression doesn't change. "The evidence speaks for itself." "The evidence is fake!" "Then explain the photos." "What photos?" He hesitates. Just for a second. Then he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out another envelope. This one, he doesn't hand to me. He holds it like it might burn him. "These were emailed to the board of directors this morning," he says quietly. "Anonymous sender." I snatch the envelope before he can change his mind. Inside are three photos. The woman who looks like me, entering hotel room 2847. A second photo of Damien—actually Damien—in the same hallway, thirty seconds later according to the timestamp. A third photo of the hotel room service receipt, signed by both of us. Champagne. Strawberries. Chocolate-covered everything. I'm going to be sick. "I wasn't there," I say, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "Damien, I swear to God, I wasn't—" "My wife saw these photos." His voice drops so low I almost can't hear it. "She's filing for divorce." The world tilts sideways. His wife. Damien Cross has been married for eight years to Victoria Ashford-Cross, hotel heiress and philanthropist. I've met her twice—once at the company Christmas party, once when she stopped by the office to surprise him with lunch. She was beautiful and kind and looked at him like he hung the moon. "Oh my God," I breathe. "Damien, I would never—" "Get out." He turns away from me, facing the window. "Security will escort you downstairs. Don't come back." "You have to believe me—" "I don't have to do anything except protect what's left of my marriage and my company." His reflection in the glass is hollow. Destroyed. "You're fired, Miss Chen. Effective immediately." I stand there for three more seconds, waiting for him to turn around. To look at me. To see that I'm telling the truth. He doesn't. So I walk out of his office, past the curious stares of my former coworkers, past the security guard who falls into step beside me like I'm some kind of criminal. My desk is exactly as I left it this morning. Coffee mug still half-full. Framed photo of my grandmother smiling at me. The orchid Damien gave me three months ago when I successfully negotiated the Tanaka deal—still blooming, still beautiful. I have seventeen minutes to pack six months of my life into a cardboard box. And I have no idea who just destroyed everything.