Chapter 1Drenched in Bleach and Blood

The CEO’s daughter was a severe germaphobe.

Once, I simply walked past her in the hallway, and she ordered someone to scrub the skin off my arm with a harsh bristle brush.

“From now on, everyone wears hazmat-grade PPE in the office,” she had shrieked. “If you can’t handle it, get the hell out!”

At the end of the month, I closed a massive ten-million-dollar account. But the moment I stepped back into the office, a bucket of industrial disinfectant was hurled right at me.

“Wash the filthy stench of blue-collar sweat off you!” Sloane sneered, her nose wrinkled in absolute disgust. “God, her wet hair is clinging to her face. It’s repulsive. Someone shave her head!”

I had reached my absolute limit.

Quietly, I slipped the ten-million-dollar contract back into my briefcase.

If her germaphobia was this severe, she must find my money incredibly dirty, too.

* * *

I stood there, drenched to the bone, the heavy smell of bleach burning my nostrils. My hair, long and dark, clung wetly to my cheeks.

Sloane Caldwell, the CEO’s twenty-something daughter, let out a dramatic gag. She waved a manicured hand at the rest of the bullpen, barking orders to cut off the waist-length hair I had spent years growing out.

I locked eyes with the people advancing on me.

“Derek. Don’t you dare.”

My voice wasn’t a scream; it was a low, glacial warning. Derek, clutching a pair of heavy office shears, froze. The sheer venom in my eyes made him second-guess himself.

Sloane rolled her eyes, her patience snapping. Stepping forward in her pristine designer heels, she kicked Derek hard in the back of the leg, shoving him toward me.

Stripped of whatever dignity he had left, Derek decided to take his humiliation out on me.

“Look, Valerie,” he scoffed, trying to sound tough. “We’re all just drawing a paycheck here. You gotta know who signs it. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. It’s just a haircut. Hold still, and we can all go back to our desks.”

Two other sycophants grabbed my arms. The cold metal of the shears was inches from my scalp.

I didn’t think. I reacted. I grabbed a heavy ceramic potted plant from the nearest desk and smashed it directly into Derek’s face.

He stumbled backward with a yelp, collapsing onto the carpet. Blood and potting soil smeared across his rapidly swelling cheek. The pot had shattered into jagged shards.

I picked up the sharpest piece of porcelain. Dripping with toxic-smelling water, my hair wild, I pointed the makeshift weapon at the room. I knew I looked unhinged. I didn’t care.

My daughter, Lily, had leukemia. The brutal rounds of chemo had taken every last strand of her hair. My waist-length hair—this hair they found so offensive—was being grown out specifically to be made into a custom wig for her.

“Anyone touches my hair, I will kill you,” I hissed, the words trembling with a mother’s terrifying desperation.

Keeping my back to the wall, I patted my briefcase, feeling the reassuring bulk of the signed contract.

“You want to play the dutiful lapdogs to a spoiled brat? Be my guest. But I’m done kissing the ring.”

The bullpen backed up, exchanging nervous glances.

Derek scrambled up from the floor, clutching his bleeding face. His voice dripped with ugly, bruised ego.

“You think we haven’t heard this before, Valerie? You pull this ‘I’m quitting’ card every time you want a raise! You think just because you’re the top earner, you own the place? Let’s be real—you’re a washed-up, divorced single mom with a sick kid. You walk out of here, who the hell is going to hire you? You couldn't even sell yourself on the street at your age!”

A cruel ripple of laughter echoed through the sales team.

I stared at these people. I had worked beside some of them for nearly a decade. The realization washed over me, cold and absolute: there was nothing left to salvage here.

If this was how they saw me, I didn’t care if they crashed and burned.