𝕿he car was there, its driver was not. In a bid to stop us from tracking him, my ingenious father had deposited the tracker into the shrubs and had forgotten to erase the address from his phone. If the situation had not been so dire, I would have laughed.

The headquarters of Mughal Companies was a rather plain-looking tower of steel and glass, but it had a strange greenish tint to it like it had been stained with the same ink that was used to print money. The building didn't stand out from the other skyscrapers, but it was easy to identify by the glowing red and black logo at the top. There were glass elevators in each corner of the building, and sometimes from the street you could see them whisking people up and down, but only the executives with offices on the top floors were allowed to use them. The rest of the employees used the general elevators in the middle of the tower.

I stared glumly at the water feature in the center of the atrium. It was a glass wall with the MCo. logo etched on it and water cascading down both sides. Affluence and power. That was their whole brand and it was displayed in abundance, from the lobby right up the marble staircase.

A cough forced my gaze back to the person at hand. The receptionist was staring at me as if I was ridiculous."You want to see Mr. Mughal of Mughal Companies and Holdings without an appointment?"

I knew it wouldn't be easy to walk into the huge granite-walled building and expect to be escorted directly to the main office. Still, the receptionist was treating it as if I were asking to see the president.

"Yes," I curbed my natural instinct to return her question with sarcasm. She didn't look like she'd respond well to that. "I'm here to ask about my father."

"Does he work here?"

"He had a meeting with Mr. Mughal. His car's outside."

She sighed, her attitude signaling that she did not care and for a moment I thought I wasn't going to get a reply. "One moment, please."

I tapped my nails on the glass surface, trying to remain calm.

"Sorry, Ma'am. There's no record of your father or his meeting with Mr. Mughal."

Lies. That's all this company did. Time for plan B.

"Can you give it another try? Please? Maybe it's been lost in the system? Maybe you can ask someone?"

With an irritable sigh, she went back to her computer, her eyebrows pushed together as she worked to conceal her frustration. I glanced over at the security guard who was manning the metal detectors situated before the elevators. Mughal Companies and Holdings shared was one of the top-performing companies in Asia, which meant there were security cameras everywhere. No matter what I tried to pull here, I was going to get caught. It was all just a matter of timing. I was okay with getting caught ... as long it was after I got to find my father and take him home.

I sidled away from the reception desk while the pinchy-mouthed receptionist lady frowned at her nails. While her focus was elsewhere I smoothed on a fake look of nonchalance and began to walk toward the detectors.

"ID," the security guard held out a hand to stop me from going any farther.

I stared up into his bearded face and noted the alertness in his eyes. Damn my luck. I couldn't get a clichéd, unobservant security guy? I smiled innocently. "The lady at reception told me they've run out of visitor ID passes. She told me to go on up."

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. I gestured to her. "Ask her."

He huffed and looked over at reception. I realized right away he was going to yell the question at her so he didn't have to move from his post.

It was my only opportunity.

I skittered past him and rushed through the detectors and heard him shout just as I was hurrying into the elevator that would take me to the top floor. The doors shut as the security guard's foot came into view.

"You've lost it," I murmured to myself as the elevator climbed. "You've actually finally lost it. You should have taken the therapy when it was offered."

I heard a snort from my right. I was sharing the elevator with a guy who grinned at me as if I was hilarious. "It doesn't work for some people," he said.

I was confused. "What?"

"Therapy," he explained. "Works for some, not for others."

I took in his sharp suit and expensive watch. He was good-looking with perfect dark brown hair and vibrant brown eyes, and I could tell with just one look that along with the designer suit he wore designer confidence. He was also vaguely familiar.

"Did it work for you?" he shrugged, his grin wicked.

"My therapist worked for me."

Despite the tense knot in my stomach and the current situation, I laughed. I was really at the edge of my mental rope today. "Well, at least you got something out of it."

His smile widened and he nodded at the elevator buttons. "Top floor?"

I nodded and my stomach flipped nervously at the thought of the impending impromptu meeting. "I need to speak to the CEO."

The guy's eyebrows rose before his gaze roamed over me. "Should I tackle you or let security have you?"

"Mr. Mughal would probably prefer that, but I'm here to inquire about my father and he's the only one who could tell me where he is."

"Uh ... who are you?"

I shot him a wary look, crossing my arms across my chest. "Um ... who are you?"

"A friend. I'm supposed to have dinner with him," wasn't he a little too young to be Mr. Mughal's friend? Like thirty years his junior or something? Must be a business thing.

The elevator doors pinged open and I took a giant step outside, my eyes on the guy next to me. "When I have it I'll give you my firstborn if you let me cut into the first five minutes of that."

He stepped out and I followed him, his gaze appraising. I waited, my eyes darting nervously to the receptionist, who looked awfully concerned by my sudden appearance. Ugh, I had no time.

"I'll tell you what," elevator guy drew my attention back to him, amusement lacing his words. "The detectors didn't go off, and it's clear you're not carrying a weapon," he gestured to my jeans and kurta. "So I'm going to take you in to see him. But-" he cut me off before I could give him my relieved thanks-" I get to accompany you. I'm curious to hear how he knows someone like you."

I wrinkled my nose, not sure if I'd just been insulted or complimented. "Someone like me?"

"Mr. Affandi," the receptionist shot up from his chair, his voice high with panic. "I believe that woman just dodged security."

"It's fine, Jibran," the guy, who I now recognized from the society pages as Asfandyar Affandi, the son of the Minister for Parliamentary Affairs Danial Affandi, waved away the receptionist's concerns. "Let the boss know we're on our way."

This guy was young too. Confused, I let Affandi lead me down a corridor of offices.

Near the end of the hallway, space opened out and a glass desk as stylish as the reception desk we'd previously passed was positioned aside two large double doors. A brass plaque with an unceremoniously scratched-out name was nailed to the door declaring that the room beyond belonged to the CEO. I stared at the scratched-out line curiously. Did an animal do that? And why wasn't it replaced? They could definitely afford to get a new one.

There were no windows into the office on this side, affording the CEO complete privacy. There was no way to tell if Dad was in there with Mr.Mughal. The young secretary stood up from behind the glass desk as we approached.

Another young gun and another male.

Did no females work on this floor? His eyes darted to me and then to the man by my side, widening with recognition.

"Uh, Mr. Affandi—"

"I'm expected," Affandi threw him a debonair smile that definitely worked for him and reached for the door.

"But—" the PA was cut off as Affandi led me inside Mr. Mughal's huge office. My feet passed the doorway halfway down the corridor, and I halted mid-step, my heart leaping into my throat when I peered through the French doors. I blinked twice just to absorb and take in the view that awaited me. The back wall was all glass, covered by dark thick blinds that constricted the flow of light into the room. The walnut furniture was masculine and traditional with ornate scrolls woodworked into the side of the dark desk. Mr. Mughal, definitely slighter than his pictures, stood at the side of his desk in the shadows, leaning over it, his hands in fists resting on the top. He wasn't wearing his suit coat or his tie; both hung on the back of his chair. The sleeves of his shirt were undone and rolled back, his collar undone, head hung and lost in thought. Unbidden, my eyes followed the corded muscles traveling along forearms, watching as they twisted, the line broken only by the expensive watch on his wrist.

I let out a small sound of disbelief an earthquake of panic overtaking me and I very nearly doubled over, the bile in my stomach threatening to erupt.

His eyes flashed to mine, wild and furious, expression quickly morphing into murderous.

Oh God, oh God.

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Thoughts, comments? Feedback?

Who's this? And why do you think he's so mad? What do you think about our heroine and her father so far?

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