"You are fired."
The man sitting across from my desk opened his mouth.
"Get out of my office."
His jaw remained suspended for a second, lips parted around whatever pathetic defense he had prepared.
There was always a defense. A sick mother. A confused assistant. A corrupted file. People became astonishingly creative when their salary was bleeding out on my carpet.
I didn't care.
He pushed himself to his feet, face turning a shade of red that probably cost less than the wine stains he had allowed onto one of our original production contracts.
"Ms. Harper, you can't just—"
"I already did."
"You haven't even heard my side."
"There is no side." I lifted my coffee and took a slow sip. Black. I had no interest in pretending bitterness needed to be softened.
"You leaked confidential casting information, lied to your department head, and nearly cost this company six million dollars. I'm not paying you to manufacture excuses. Security will escort you downstairs."
His nostrils flared.
I looked past him toward the glass wall of my office.
Thirty-eight floors below, Los Angeles glittered beneath the morning haze, all polished steel, expensive cars, and people selling pieces of themselves for the chance to become briefly unforgettable.
From this height, the city almost looked clean.
"You're a heartless bitch," he spat.
I checked the time on my watch.
Nine fourteen.
"Yes," I said. "And you're still fired."
He stormed toward the door, jerking it open so hard it struck the stopper with a violent crack. My assistant stood outside, tablet pressed against her chest, expression carefully neutral as he passed.
I watched him leave without feeling anything.
Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Not even irritation.
He had been incompetent. Now he was unemployed. The universe had corrected itself.
My assistant entered after him and closed the door with far more control than he had managed.
Sophie Lane had worked for me for three years, which made her either remarkably talented or deeply unwell.
Possibly both. She wore a slate-grey dress, sensible heels, and the expression of a woman who had already survived four emergencies before breakfast.
I set my coffee down.
"Find more competent people, please."
Sophie glanced toward the door. "That would be easier if you stopped terrifying them during interviews."
"If fear prevents them from functioning, they shouldn't be working here."
"He was the fourth senior production manager in six months."
"Then the first three were equally disappointing."
"The third one quit."
"He cried in a budget meeting."
"His father had died."
"He still miscalculated the international distribution costs."
Sophie stared at me.
I stared back.
She exhaled through her nose and tapped something on her screen. "I'll contact recruitment."
"Contact someone better than recruitment. Recruitment hired him."
"That is generally their job."
"And clearly they're shit at it."
She made another note, probably adding Elena insulted an entire department before ten to whatever private list kept her sane.
I leaned back in my chair.
My office had been designed to intimidate without looking like it was trying. Black marble, smoked glass, dark wood, clean lines. No family photographs.
No sentimental objects. No ridiculous motivational quotes about dreams or courage.
The only decoration on my desk was a silver pen worth more than most people's cars.
Objects were reliable. They stayed where you put them. They didn't demand reassurance, betray confidence, or pretend loyalty until another company offered them ten percent more.
Sophie cleared her throat.
"You have the dinner tonight."
"No."
"It wasn't a question."
"Cancel my invitation."
"I can't."
I looked at her.
Most people lost the ability to breathe properly when I looked at them that way. Sophie merely adjusted her grip on the tablet.
"It's the premiere dinner for The Last Summer," she continued. "Victor Salazar will be there."
"Victor Salazar is always somewhere I don't want to be."
"He is also one of our largest private investors."
"He invests because I make him money."
"He invests because you make him money and occasionally pretend to tolerate him."
"I tolerated him in March."
"It's August."
"That should have been enough."
Sophie's mouth twitched. She knew better than to smile.
I reached for my coffee again, only to discover it had cooled. Unacceptable. I pressed the intercom button.
"Bring me another coffee."
A nervous voice answered from reception. "Yes, Ms. Harper."
I released the button.
Sophie glanced down at her schedule. "The dinner begins at seven thirty. Press line at seven. Screening at eight forty-five."
"I'm not walking a press line."
"You don't have to. You can enter through the private reception."
"I have other things to deal with."
"You always have other things to deal with."
"Because this company would collapse into a flaming pile of shit if I didn't."
"It survived before you became CEO."
"It was worth two billion before I became CEO. It's worth fourteen now."
She inclined her head. "And somehow the city still functions when you attend a movie premiere."
I ignored that.
On the desk in front of me sat a black folder stamped with the working title of our next major production.
Ashes Between Us.
A romantic thriller.
The script wasn't terrible, which already placed it above most of the garbage that crossed my desk. A man lost his wife in a suspicious attack.
Consumed by grief, he hunted the people responsible, only to become entangled with a woman who had information about the conspiracy.
She helped him, manipulated him, lied to him, and eventually became the one person he was unwilling to sacrifice.
Love wrapped around revenge like silk around a knife.
Marketable. International. Awards potential if directed properly.
The male lead was already attached. Daniel Cross. Bankable face, adequate talent, an ego inflated to the size of a small country.
The female lead was the problem.
"We still haven't found her," I said.
Sophie didn't need to ask who I meant.
"The casting director sent another shortlist."
"They were all wrong."
"You rejected twelve actresses."
"Because all twelve performed the character like a grieving houseplant."
"One of them won a Golden Globe."
"For crying 'beautifully' in a bathroom for ninety minutes."
"It was a critically acclaimed film."
"It was boring."
Sophie scrolled through her tablet. "There are two more auditions tomorrow."
"Cancel them."
"You haven't watched the tapes."
"I read their names."
"That is not the same thing."
"It was enough."
A knock sounded at the door before a young assistant entered with my fresh coffee. She placed it carefully on the desk, avoiding eye contact.
"Thank you," I said.
She looked startled.
I wasn't cruel without purpose. Fear was useful. Chaos was not.
After she left, Sophie folded her arms.
"You know, People magazine published another article about you."
"I'm thrilled."
"The headline says you'll marry your work."
"At least my work is profitable."
"They also called you emotionally unavailable."
"Did that affect the stock price?"
"No."
"Then I don't give a fuck."
Sophie gave me a long look before turning her tablet toward me.
A photograph filled the screen.
A woman stood beneath a wall of camera flashes, auburn hair falling over one shoulder, green eyes bright beneath the lights.
She wore a pale gold dress and smiled as though Hollywood had never once sharpened its teeth against her skin.
Riley Carter.
America's current obsession.
Twenty-six. Oscar-nominated. Beautiful enough to sell perfume, films, magazines, and fantasies to millions of strangers.
I knew the name. Everyone did.
"What about her?" I asked.
"She'll be at the premiere tonight."
"And?"
"She's being considered for Ashes Between Us."
I looked at the photograph again.
Too warm. Too polished. Too adored.
Probably another actress trained to smile while an army of publicists cleaned the blood from behind the curtain.
"She's wrong for it," I said.
"You haven't audition her yet."
"I don't need to."
Sophie lowered the tablet.
"Then come tonight and see for yourself."
I lifted my coffee, holding her gaze over the rim.
She had maneuvered me into attending.
Annoying.
Impressive, but annoying.
"Fine," I said. "I'll go to the fucking premiere."
Sophie smiled.
I immediately regretted not firing her.