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My fangs extended.

That tugging sensation in my gut intensified.

Mine the beast inside me snarled.

But, no.

No.

She wasn’t mine.

She’d never been mine.

It had all been some sick ploy.

Mr. Lane had clearly been expecting us to be chomping at the bit, leaping out of our chairs, thrusting our fists in the air, ready to be rich and famous. Or, more likely, to be famous and make him rich.

I leaned back in my chair.

Maggie pushed, pushed, pushed at her bloody cuticles.

Disappointed in our silence, Mr. Lane sighed.

“Maggie!” he barked.

She nearly flew out of her chair.

But finally, finally her head lifted.

Her hand lifted to nervously push her hair behind her ear.

And there she was.

Not lit up with the glow of success from a plan plotted and executed.

She was paper-pale. And that pallor only managed to make her red-rimmed eyes and swollen, purple bags all the more apparent.

She hadn’t even tried to cover it up.

Her face was bare, save for the evidence of sleeplessness, of—dare I even think it—tears.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice a whisper as she looked up at her boss.

“Were you listening to what I said?” Mr. Lane’s tone was sharp, cutting.

My eyes narrowed.

“Yes.”

“Then what do you have to say?”

“I, um, well,” she tucked the hair behind her other ear. And for just a second, just a fragment of a second, her gaze cut to mine.

That was the right word, too.

Cut.

I felt sliced.