“She in there?” I gesture to the double oak doors behind the burly man, my brows raising as I stride closer. I watch as he starts to stutter out an excuse, confused at my presence, but says nothing as I shove past him. He knows better.

The doors open and I step into the large office, my eyes immediately falling to you behind the desk. “You,” I glare, moving across the room and slamming photos down in front of you. Photos of my Brighton warehouse raided and ransacked. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

It’s a ridiculous question. Rhetoric, even. I know it was you. I’m not stupid.

A few years ago, once upon a time, we were married. Not for very long. A year and half maximum. We just didn’t work together, simple as that. But what’s not simple is how you took some pages from my playbook and started your own organization.

Quite a powerful one, I should add. Like mine.

Ever since then it’s been a total shit show. Other organizations steer clear of any trouble between us, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Sabotaged shipments, rigged crates, and so on. Petty things.

But nothing to this degree. Nothing like straight theft.