Page 17 of Hate Notes

"In the absence of heirs and inheritors, the property would pass to a property management company... So if we can convince him to let us spruce up the places in any way, we would become the de facto inheritors of the property when he leaves his meat sack behind."

"That seems kind of immoral," Julian said. "Like we're tricking this old man into leaving us his factories?"

Moira squinted. "You think he'll care if his factories go to us or the city when he's dead?"

"He could," Julian said. "I don't know about you, but I have no interest in being haunted. I once took a ghost tour in St. Augustine and went to this lighthouse. I swear on my nana I saw a ghost. Granted, there was some drinking involved, but maybe that just opened up my senses to the other side, you know?"

"No," Moira said. "We don't know."

"Enough," I said. "I want this to become our top priority. Roman, get with legal and make sure this loophole is iron-clad. I don't want to pursue this only to find out it won't hold up in court. Moira, I want you to take the next week to find the right person to meet with this old guy. I need somebody who can charm him. Somebody who can convince him this is something he needs. Julian, you're going to work up a project proposal. Give Moira a plan of action to send with the person she chooses—sell him on why he needs us to work for him on this project. Understood?"

Roman and Moira simply nodded, both of their eyes lit with obvious hunger and excitement at the opportunity to prove themselves. Julian sat back in his chair, face grim. "Damn it. I'm going to get haunted for this, aren't I?"

As they stood to leave, my phone buzzed. A text from Patricia Rosh, the CEO of Hate Notes…

Patricia:My new girl seems to be your match, doesn’t she? Too much integrity to take your bribes? Or have you simply given up trying to win?

I curled my lip in annoyance. The damn woman had my number because of Remmy, who thought it would be funny for us tocommunicate. So far, the communications were entirely one-sided, but it irked me every time Rosh texted me to gloat.

"Sir?" Julian lingered in the doorway. "Just... hypothetically, if Mr. Davenport's ghost did come after us, would that be covered under our current insurance policy?"

"Out," I said, but found myself fighting a smile. Strange. I never used to find Julian's nonsense amusing.

Then again, I never used to find much of anything amusing until lately.

I blamed my own ghost in red for that. Julian may be worried about getting haunted by the ghost of Marcellus Davenport, but my haunting was very real. A small, fiery woman in red waited outside my building for me every day. Every day, she became better at pushing my buttons and getting under my skin. Every day, she walked farther over the line.

The worst part of all?

There was an entirely irrational, entirely stupid part of me that looked forward to our brief interactions. Interacting with Ember was different. At times, I felt like an apex predator, feared and respected to such a degree that nobody dared look me in the eye or speak their mind to me. Ember, on the other hand, had no such fear. She stared up at me with defiance and mischief, and because of that, our interactions were of a flavor I couldn’t find anywhere else.

And yet they were a distraction. She was a mind virus that was taking root somewhere deep in my brain and corrupting my ability to focus on what mattered most.

With some effort, I pushed the small woman from my thoughts and brought my attention back to this new and exciting opportunity.

“Marcellus Davenport,” I mused aloud. But even as I considered the implications of landing such a massive opportunity, Ember began slipping back into my thoughts again and again.

I needed to do something about her. If only I knew what.

9

EMBER

It was cold outside the Foster Real Estate building, the kind of bone-deep Manhattan cold that made me question all my life choices—especially the one about standing out here every morning to antagonize New York's most terrifying CEO. I had on my warmest green mittens, two coats, and a cute little hat to keep my head warm. As I read and rehearsed today's hate notes, I swayed and bounced from side to side to keep the chill from settling in, my breath forming little clouds in the frigid air.

Last night's text from Cole still burned in my mind. His first message in days, and it was exactly what I should have expected—cold and transactional, demanding results with no emotion. No emojis to soften the blow, because God forbid Cole Northman show a hint of actual humanity.

Asshole. The worst part wasn't even that he'd probably cheated before we broke up or that he was forcing me out of his company with this ridiculous assignment. What really stung was how the whole thing had left me unable to trust my own judgment. How was I supposed to date when I couldn't even trust myself to recognize when someone was manipulating me?

My fractured ability to trust was on full display last night. Kora set me up with her cousin, who was finally in town and single at the right time for us to meet. He was handsome in that wholesome way that usually spelled trouble, polite enough to make my teeth hurt, and practically waving green flags with both hands. A year ago, I would have been all over that. Instead, I found myself searching his face for signs of the mask I'd missed with Cole.

I told him I was too focused on work for it to be fair to date anyone, apologized, and broke things off before they even began. Sure, the work thing was partially true, but the real truth? I kept imagining how Cole had flipped a switch and changed. One day he was the perfect boyfriend, the next he was this cold stranger wearing Cole's face.

I thought I knew him. I'd have bet money I knew the real Cole. Then he just... transformed.

It was all I could think of on my date with Kora's cousin. Now I worried the brain disease Cole left me with would be terminal. I'd die alone—unless a drawer full of tastefully named vibrators and dildos counted as life partners. Even Catman had given me a judgmental look when I came home early from that date, his one good eye full of feline disappointment.

A stir in the gathered crowd snapped me back to reality. Orion and his sister were approaching, and my heart did that stupid little flutter it had started doing lately. Not that I was bragging, but ever since I took over as his Hate Notes messenger, the morning crowd had been steadily growing. I liked to think it was because of my expert delivery. It might also have been the collective thrill of watching someone torment a man they feared too much to cross themselves.

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