Chapter 1Peel Your Own Damn Shrimp

I was scrolling through the monthly procurement approvals when a single line of text made my finger freeze on the mousepad.

Premium white shrimp, 5 lbs. Weekly delivery, Fridays.

The delivery address wasn’t the corporate office. It wasn’t our house, either.

I stared at the unfamiliar street name for ten solid seconds.

The Belvedere, Tower 3, Apt 1702.

In the margins, the requisition note contained four simple words:

CEO’s Private Order.

I had been married to Brad Harrison for eight years, and I had never heard of The Belvedere. But I knew exactly who the CEO was.

It was my husband.

* * *

Most people didn’t know that Harrison Seafood was an empire I had built with my own two hands.

Eight years ago, I quit my secure job at the marine research institute. I took my life savings of $200,000, combined it with a $300,000 loan from my father, and leased a two-thousand-square-foot cold storage unit on the East End. That was the birth of our wholesale seafood business.

Why call it Harrison Seafood?

Because Brad told me it was easier to do business under a man’s name.

"You’re a woman. If you’re out there running the markets, riding the delivery trucks, negotiating with the dock bosses, they aren’t going to take you seriously."

That was his exact phrasing. At the time, I thought he had a point.

The company was registered in his name. Legal representative: Bradley Harrison.

He went out and played the role. As the "CEO," he schmoozed at high-end steakhouses, drank single malt scotch, and handed out thick, embossed business cards.

Meanwhile, as the "CEO’s wife," I was standing on the freezing docks at three in the morning, inspecting the catch.

Year one, we pulled in $800,000 in revenue.

Year two, $3 million.

Year three, we moved into a new processing plant ten times the size of our original unit.

Year five, we locked down the largest restaurant chain supply contract in the tri-state area.

Year eight, our annual revenue hit $32 million.

Every single one of those dollars was negotiated by me, fish by fish, crate by crate.

My name was the point of contact on every major vendor contract.

I knew the birthdays of every single big-ticket client.

The precise temperature of the deep freeze, the sizing metric for the prawns, the logistics routing, the shift schedules of the processing floor—it all lived exclusively in my head.

And Brad?

He signed the papers. Because he was the legal representative.

"Jo, did that afternoon shipment clear?"

"It did." Carol walked into my office, hugging a clipboard to her chest. "The Grand Mariner Hotel is breathing down our necks. They need it for their Friday night banquet."

Carol was a company veteran. She’d been my right hand for six years.

She called me Jo. Not Mrs. Harrison. Not the CEO's wife.

In this entire building, only outsiders called Brad "The Boss." Internally, everyone knew who really kept the lights on. My last name was Mercer, and the staff knew exactly who they answered to.

"Alright, I’ll keep an eye on it," I said.

I looked back down at the procurement system on my monitor. And there it was again.

Premium white shrimp, 5 lbs. Every Friday.

Delivery: The Belvedere, Tower 3, Apt 1702.

Note: CEO’s Private Order.

I clicked into the archive and pulled up the historical data.

Every Friday. For three consecutive years.

One hundred and fifty-six weeks.

Seven hundred and eighty pounds of shrimp.

I read the number twice.

"Carol."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where The Belvedere is?"

"That new luxury high-rise up on the North Shore? Yeah, it's gorgeous. Extremely exclusive." She paused, studying my face. "Why?"

"Nothing."

I closed the procurement window and grabbed my car keys off the desk.

"Keep an eye on the afternoon logistics for me. I need to step out."