Too Late, Mr. Robbins: I Am Gone

ise

laze Robbins, my fingers clenched tightly around a piec

t day of our five

ross the polished wood

public relations contract officially ter

eam data report, scanning numbers and stats as if I we

own image flashed across it-the captain of the New York Dynasties, a

eyes sweeping over the document before landing on my

an commending a well-functioning appliance. "You'v

ugh my chest, but I held my

it between two fingers. He pushed it toward me wi

e number. Five

he desk, a smirk playing on his lips-the fa

ive a comfortable li

check. I looked dir

ns. I wish you all th

sed an eyebrow, leaned back in his chair, a

farewell. Just then, his personal assistant, Nathan

"Sir, Vance Media just pushed the

e screen of Blaze's private phone lit up on his desk. A

? DINNER WITH MEDIA HEIRESS ANNABE

ite noise drowning out everything. An e

his phone, annoyed that the news had broken early, but

ve-year "cooperation." The five-million-dollar che

was the last piece of clutter being s

my cheeks. I felt like a foo

till standing there. His eyes

e someth

down the lump forming in my th

d up th

I slowly, deliberat

e silent office. Blaze's pupils contracted, his face

kett Ware, pushed the door open. He took

l. What ha

ver me, a lazy, inapprop

d the two pieces of the

cutting. "My services are concluded. Thi

ry, I turned. The sharp click of my heels on the marble floor echoed my reso

ing off Crockett's amused tau