Chapter 8
Jemma trembled as she stepped into the office.
It was eight twenty-five in the morning.
Early, technically. On any other day, Jemma wouldn’t be here early, but Jasper had noticed the vacant look in her eyes this morning and gently taken over feeding Jayla without being asked.
He was such a good kid. So patient with the baby, so quick to help—even when his own heart was still in pieces.
And he’d lost so much.
His mother. His stability. His closest friends. The life he’d known had been pulled out from under him, inch by inch, since the moment their mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
He didn’t even know the worst of it.
Jemma swallowed hard. That particular truth—the one she’d buried deep—would go with her to the grave. Jasper wasn’t thinking clearly lately, and if he ever discovered what their mother had done, it would break him. Maybe beyond repair.
She wouldn’t let that happen.
If she accomplished nothing else over the next year, Jemma would protect what remained of her family. She’d already lost her mother. She’d already lost the man she loved more than she wanted to admit.
She wouldn’t lose Jasper.
Or Jayla.
Ever.
With that thought pulsing like armor beneath her skin, she walked across the room and tucked her soggy purse into her desk drawer. She locked it, turned—
—and jumped.
Saif was standing there.
Right beside her desk.
She stepped back, hand flying to her chest. “Where did you come from?”
“I’ve been here since seven,” he said coldly. “The exact time I told you to be here.”
Jemma forced herself upright, spine stiffening. She wouldn’t shrink—not today.
“And I told you last night,” she said, voice calm, chin lifted, “that I start at eight thirty.”
He studied her for a moment. Then, slowly, a familiar grin curved his lips.
That slow, dangerous grin she used to love. The one that hinted at mischief and dark intentions.
Her pulse skipped. Her toes curled involuntarily. And the worst part? He knew it. His eyes swept over her—casual but thorough.
“We’ll figure things out as the day progresses,” he said smoothly.
Then he turned toward Mark’s door.
“Who works in there?”
“That’s Mark Sinstack’s office,” she replied, folding her hands tightly in front of her.
He glanced at his watch again, then at her. “Where the hell is he?” Saif’s voice sharpened. “The factory he contracted two weeks ago just sent notice they can’t meet the quota. He should be here—on the phone with other vendors, fixing the damn problem.”
Jemma’s lips pressed together. There were a dozen things she could say. She could explain that Mark had contracted with a known exploitative factory. That he might be blackmailed, or worse. That he strolled in most days between ten and noon, depending on how hungover he was.
But telling Saif any of that would be career suicide. Mark would fire her without any hesitation if she told Saif about his drinking problem or the lax schedule the boss allowed himself.
Mark had a long memory and a mean streak, so she said nothing.
Saif’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to tell me.”
“Nope,” she replied curtly, meeting his gaze without blinking.
He watched her for another moment, but Jemma kept silent. Finally, Saif nodded. “Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s go inside and figure it out ourselves.”
Jemma’s heart kicked into high gear.
No. Absolutely not.
She darted between him and the door, arms spreading slightly—not a physical block, but close.
“Why don’t I take you on a tour of the other departments first?” she offered quickly. “You can meet the leads, get a feel for the rest of the team.”
She needed to stall. Needed Mark to walk through that door before Saif found something that would ignite a fire she wouldn’t be able to contain.
Saif didn’t move. His gaze sharpened into something clinical. Calculating.
“You’re protecting Mark.”
It wasn’t a question.
She stalled. “Why…what?”
“What don’t you want me to see in there?”
Oh, so many things. The questionable invoices. The unethical supplier letters. A list of overdue tax filings. She wasn’t protecting Mark.
She was protecting herself. Her job. Her ability to keep feeding the people she loved.
“Nothing,” she lied.
There was a beat of silence.
And then he stepped back.
Jemma released the breath she’d been holding.
“Okay,” he said, voice neutral. “Let’s do the tour. I want to evaluate the department heads. See who’s worth keeping.”
Her stomach dropped.
That phrasing.
He wasn’t just looking. He was hunting.
Because if she knew anything from her short time at Sinstack Designs, it was that most of the leadership team here were as toxic as Mark—people who thrived on intimidation, backstabbing, and whatever power they could hold over their minions.
And now Saif had walked into their den with fire in his eyes.
Jemma turned, leading him down the hallway, her mind already racing.
He was going to burn this place to the ground.
And she didn’t know if she’d be among the survivors when he was done.