The Socialites Mocked Her Dress and Seated Her Next to the Scarred Mafia Boss — Until He Stood Up and Offered His Hand

Before I could even reach for my cell phone, the heavy glass door of my office swung open.

Standing in the doorway was Wesley Harkort. He wasn't smiling his usual arrogant, mocking smile. He held a suppressed black handgun, aimed directly at my chest.

"Step away from the computer, Clare," Wesley commanded, his voice trembling with manic, desperate panic.

I physically staggered backward, my knees knocking against my desk. "Wesley... what are you doing?"

"You just had to look too closely at the ledgers, didn't you?" Wesley spat, stepping into the room and locking the door behind him. "My father warned me you were too smart for a junior position. We needed you to blindly approve the transfer."

"You're framing Leandro for the cartel theft," I gasped, the horrifying reality completely paralyzing me. "The Chicago outfit will kill him!"

"That's the entire point, you idiot!" Wesley laughed hysterically. "Once Leandro is dead, Blair inherits his entire construction empire as his grieving fiancée, and we take fifty percent! It was a flawless plan until you started digging!"

Wesley raised the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger.

I closed my eyes, terrified that I was going to die in a cheap office cubicle because I cared too much about a man who didn't want me.

CRASH.