The coffee hit Riley Hale before she had time to turn away.

The next morning at six o'clock, the twenty-eighth floor of Anderson Meridian Group was bathed in the crisp, cool light of dawn.

The floor was a showcase of wealth and power: white Italian marble, dark mahogany doors, glass-walled conference rooms, and panoramic views of Elliott Bay.

Riley was alone in the main boardroom, pushing a heavy industrial buffer over the dark hardwood surrounding the thirty-foot conference table.

Her back was sore, her legs felt like lead, and the burn on her collarbone was still raw beneath her gray shirt. But her mind was working faster than it had in months.

She stopped the buffer and walked over to the massive glass window looking out over the city.

In three hours, the board of directors would sit around this table. Her father would sit at the head. Zach Porter would be sitting three seats down, presenting his quarterly risk assessment report. Cara Whitmore would be standing near the door, ensuring the coffee was hot and the executive staff felt comfortable.

Riley looked at her reflection in the glass.

Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She wore no makeup. The gray uniform was slightly too large around her shoulders. She looked utterly invisible—the kind of person people talked over, walked past, or spilled coffee on without a second thought.

The heavy double doors of the boardroom clicked open.

Riley turned quickly, grabbing her dust rag.

Charles Anderson walked into the room.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue silk tie. He looked every inch the powerful chief executive officer, but his face looked tired, lines of strain deeply carved around his eyes. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand and a stack of printed financial reports in the other.

He stopped when he saw her.

For four long seconds, father and daughter looked at each other across the thirty-foot mahogany table.

Charles's eyes swept over her gray shirt, the bruised skin peeking above her collar, her dusty work boots, and the raw spot on her neck.

His jaw tightened slightly, a subtle twitch near his temple that only someone who had known him for twenty-eight years would recognize.

"Miss Hale," Charles said, his voice deep and formal, carrying clearly across the empty boardroom.

"Mr. Anderson," Riley replied, keeping her posture straight.

Charles walked slowly toward the head of the table, setting his briefcase down. He looked at the shining glass surface of the table, then down at the clean floor.

"The room looks well maintained," he said.

"It’s part of my job, sir."

Charles leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms. "How has your first week been?"

Riley stared at him. She saw the concern in his eyes—the father behind the executive—but she also saw the challenge. He was testing her to see if she would break, if she would complain, if she would beg to come back to the twenty-eighth floor.

"It’s been eye-opening, sir," Riley said quietly. "I've learned that gum is very difficult to remove from mahogany. And that coffee burns more than you think."

Charles’s eyes narrowed on her collarbone. "What happened to your neck?"

"An accident," Riley said smoothly. "A senior analyst had an unstable cup."

Charles stared at her for a long moment. He knew his daughter. He knew the pride that ran through her veins—the same pride that ran through his own.

"Do you want to come upstairs early?" Charles asked softly. "I can tell the board that your sabbatical is over."

Riley looked out the window at the rising sun, then back at her father.

"No," she said. "My month isn't up yet. And I haven't finished cleaning."

Charles looked at her, and for the first time in six months, a faint, genuine smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.