Grace's POV
Vincent's assistant knocked on her bedroom door at 9 AM and told her to be ready in one hour. No explanation. No context. Just a command delivered with the politeness of someone who worked for a man who didn't have to ask twice.
Grace's heart was racing before the door even closed.
She dressed carefully. Not too nice because that looked like she was trying. Not too plain because that looked like she didn't care. She aimed for the middle. Professional. Invisible. The kind of woman executives didn't remember after meetings ended.
In the car, Vincent didn't look at her. He stared out the window at Manhattan moving past like he was already somewhere else. He looked thinner than he had a week ago. The cancer was working faster now. She could see it in the way his suit hung loose on his shoulders.
"You've been asking questions," he said finally.
Grace's stomach dropped. This was it. This was the moment where everything fell apart.
