Page 2 of The Foreman
Macy didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Trace McRae had a presence. The kind that prickled your skin and made the air feel heavier. Like the whole room shifted slightly just to accommodate him. The Silver Spur's enforcer. The Club’s disciplinarian. The man who could make grown women tremble with a look.
And the only Dom Macy had ever actually wanted to kneel for.
Not that she’d ever admit it. Hell no.
Trace came to stand beside her, all broad shoulders and silent judgment. She refused to look at him. If she did, she might fold. And Macy Dane never folded.
"You’re late," she said lightly. "I was expecting my executioner an hour ago."
He didn’t reply right away. When he did, his voice was calm. Deep. Controlled.
"You were given a choice, Macy. Discipline, or departure."
"I didn’t do it."
"Doesn’t matter. Not anymore."
She whirled around, finally meeting his eyes. Stormy blue. Unflinching.
"It matters to me," she said.
Something flickered behind his gaze. Brief. Then gone.
"You want vindication. I want order. The club believes you did it, and they chose stability over your protestations. All the evidence points to you."
"Of course they did," she said, too brightly. "Why would anyone believe the sassy little troublemaker?"
He stepped closer. Not touching. But close enough to make her breath catch.
"Because I wanted to," he said, voice low. "But you made it impossible."
Macy looked away.
That night, they banned her. Formally. Publicly. A decision read aloud in the presence of the owners and members. She didn’t cry. Didn’t argue. Just walked out in four-inch heels and a smirk painted across her face.
But later, alone in her car, she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white as the tears began to fall.
Present Day
Rain slashed sideways across the windshield like a threat.
She hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Not since the call from HR asking her to'come in for a chat.'The kind of chat that came with lawyers and security guards. That had been her first warning.
The second had come hours later, when she’d arrived home to find her apartment door ajar and Chet Wrigley, her company’s lead researcher and a notorious asshole, standing in her kitchen with a look that said he knew everything.
“Should’ve taken the deal, Macy,” he’d sneered. “You’d have been well paid for keeping your mouth shut.”
She hadn’t even had time to respond before he lunged.
They struggled. She fought like hell. Knocked over a lamp. Left a bruise on his jaw that would’ve made her proud—if he hadn’t gone down hard and stayed down.
Bleeding. Still. Unmoving. After toeing him and watching his chest rise and fall, she leaned down to check for a pulse.
By the time the news broke that he was dead, her face was already on every station as a person of interest.
Only thing was, she hadn’t done it. The last time she'd seen Chet, he'd been alive, butsomeone had made damn sure it looked like she'd murdered him.
