Chapter 1

One

Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or ALL as it was known when I'd started undergoing treatment for it at the age of 19, is one of the meanest members of the cancer family.

It killed my mother at the young age of 24, and I'd spent the most formative years of my young adult life fighting the disease.

So yeah, ALL is a terrible uninvited guest who nobody wants to hear from again if and when you manage to kick it out of your body. But apparently, there was something way worse than getting the cancer that killed your mother and almost killed you.

The cure.

Four years ago, thanks to extensive chemotherapy and a bone marrow match from a good Samaritan of a similar racial background, I went into remission. I'll always be grateful for that. Unfortunately, the cure that saved my life also turned off my body's immune system, effectively leaving the door open for an even scarier monster: acute myeloid leukemia .

AML … those were the three letters now hanging over my head a few hours later as I walked back into the ultra-modern AlgoFortune office building in a daze.

It hadn't taken my Scottish doctor nearly as long to explain AML to me as it did the doctor back in Albany, New York where I'd grown up to explain ALL. And that turned out not to be a good thing.

The disease typically showed up in eight to ten percent of cancer patients within an average of five years. And for patients with a history and genetic profile like mine, AML had an average life expectancy of eight months. Give or take.

Eight months. The roar of an ocean started between my ears as Dr. Keller explained why chemotherapy and radiation were no longer options for me. Then he gently suggested we schedule another appointment to discuss "palliative options."

TL; CP—Too long/couldn't process version: "Your cancer is back, you're dying, and there's nothing you can do about it."

For once, I was happy the office Iain had given me outside of his suite was made entirely of glass. Sitting inside a rectangular fishbowl that put me on view for anyone who happened to be walking by was the only reason I didn't immediately burst into tears as soon as I sat down at my desk.

Instead, I flipped through the brochures the doctor's nurse had pressed into my hand.

They had much less hopeful titles than the ones I'd received as a sick 19-year-old. Less "rah-rah, you can beat this!" and more "oh well, better deal."

The "Coping with Loss and Grief" booklet listed all the mental and physical therapy resources in Edinburgh Cancer Care Centre's network. There was also a practical pamphlet entitled, "Talking with Loved Ones about Advanced Care Planning." And rounding out the world's most depressing collection of medical brochures ever was, "Transitions: Taking Charge at the End of Life" which consisted of three brief commiserative paragraphs followed by a list of local hospices and in-home hospice care providers.

Wow, I'm really going to die.

At the age of twenty-five.

That's a thing that's going to happen to me in less than a year, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Even though I skipped breakfast and lunch, my stomach pitched and rolled, and I set the brochures aside for fear of what my body would expel if I continued to dwell on them … or my fatal diagnosis.

Okay, time to stop wallowing. "Stiff upper lip" as they were known to say around these parts. I pushed my glasses up my nose and typed in my computer passcode.

I'd been gone less than an hour. But in that time, Iain had sent me over thirty messages—four of which were marked urgent.

I glanced toward his office. His door was firmly closed. Which meant he was probably scrambling to get the code for the latest algorithm completed before taking off for his retreat.

Good. That meant I could work in peace. Without him hovering over me, complaining I'd missed two serial commas in my daily market report (as he'd done yesterday). Or repeatedly ordering me to draft emails from him to workers that typically began with "Dear [insert one of the numerous Scottish terms for idiot here]."

Yes, that was what I would do. Throw myself into my work. Try to forget about the new set of letters hovering over my head—at least for a little while .

I started re-typing Iain's notes to the GUI team from this morning's update so they'd sound like they'd been written by a semi-decent human being and not a pit viper in a kilt. I managed to focus on that and only that for five whole minutes. But then a restless feeling overcame me.

A restless feeling that made me open a new tab in my internet browser and type in the URL for the Royal Scottish Bank. A password, a security question, and a few clicks later, my savings account popped up on my screen.

I stared at the four-figure number. It wasn't a lot. But it was something. Enough to go somewhere else—somewhere I'd never been before and survive for a month or two. I could maybe even stretch it out to four or six months if I didn't come back to live in crazy expensive Edinburgh.

I opened another new tab on my computer. This time, I typed "Milford Track New Zealand" into the empty search bar at the top of the window.

It was where I'd originally planned to travel at the end of my summer internship in Scotland. But then the position at AlgoFortune had become available …

I clicked on the Images tab, and my screen filled with pictures of a gorgeous fjord, flanked by lush green mountains and majestic waterfalls, the likes of which I'd never seen in real life. And might never get the chance to see again—not if I didn't go there before it was too late.

My heart thundered, and I knew— knew what I had to do. Right now, before I could chicken out and stop myself.

I stood abruptly and charged into Iain's office without knocking. Totally against his standards. I was actually supposed to send a text first and get formal permission before even daring to knock. But I no longer cared about his infamous list of protocols.

I mean, what did I have to lose?

I marched right up to his stupid standing desk and cranked my head back to look him straight in the eye—only to have my newfound courage peter out as soon as my gaze met his annoyed one.

Ugh. Why did he have to be so ridiculously gorgeous? My heart skipped all the beats, as usual, and my stomach dropped like I'd gotten on a roller coaster, not simply tried to look at my boss straight on for once.

I ended up quickly redirecting my eyes to my feet.

"Well?" Iain demanded, his voice even testier than usual. "Out with it. Why did you barge into my office without the required permission to enter text."

"Um … I just found out I have cancer," I said, dropping my eyes to my feet. "Actually. I had cancer before. Leukemia. It's been in remission since before I came to Scotland. But now I have a new type of leukemia. And I guess it's too aggressive for them to treat, so it looks like I don't have much longer …"

I trailed off, expecting a barrage of questions. What kind of cancer? What do you mean untreatable? Why am I just now hearing about this?

But he didn't say anything. And I was too afraid to look up to see how he was taking this. With my eyes still glued to my feet, I told him, "I'm sorry. I really am, but I need to quit. Effective in two weeks."

This time I did look up. Not because I felt particularly brave. I just needed to get a sense of where he was at before I said anything else .

Iain thought he had an answer for everything, and he hated change of any kind. I got a "not up to my standards" reprimand the other day just for modifying a report's font from Avenir to Avenir Next—that was how opposed he was to even the tiniest minutia of deviation from his standard.

So, I had no idea how he'd react to the news that for reasons completely out of his control, he'd be losing his assistant in two weeks.

However, Iain's face remained its usual hard mask, his jaw tightly clenched with irritation.

"I'm sorry." I dropped my gaze again. To my hands this time. They'd somehow folded into a tight prayer-like clasp against my chest. "I … I know it's going to be inconvenient to replace me, especially as we go into stage two of the new product launch. I'll start looking for my replacement today?—"

"Both your parents are no longer in your life, correct?"

I started, majorly surprised by that question coming out of Iain Scotswolf's mouth. I mean, I knew almost everything there was to know about Iain. I made sure his one-night stands went as smoothly as possible, fielded calls from his brother, sent in monthly five-figure donations to his alma mater, the University of Edinburgh, on his behalf.

Last month, I'd refused yet again to put through a call from Iain's Italian mother, Valentina, who'd moved back to the Italian countryside after splitting up with his father, Lachlan. And next month I'd make sure Lachlan received a new set of golf clubs for Scottish Father's Day. When I went back to my desk earlier that morning, I'd set up the requested date with Lisette because that was how involved I was in Iain's life outside of work .

But I figured Iain knew next to nothing about me. He'd never asked me a single question about my background or life outside the office—not until this morning when my doctor's appointment came up. And now here he was asking about my parents. What was going on here?

"Um … no, they're not," I answered carefully. Knowing how impatient he could be, I left out all the details about how my dad left pretty much right before I was born, and how my mother had died soon after.

"So, you have no close family to speak of?"

"No," I answered again. A painful memory from four years ago surfaced … of being the only person at the funeral of the grandmother who'd raised me after my mother had died. And of the sudden realization that I was entirely on my own now that she was gone.

"Right then, you've nowhere to go. So why would someone in your condition quit a well-paid job with private benefits? That's just daft!"

The harsh truth of Iain's words hit me with a sharp pang.

He was right; I didn't have anyone.

No home to return to. No loving arms to comfort me in my last few months. My roommate and best friend, Tara, would do her best, but she was the same age as me. Only twenty-five, and still in the prime of her life. It wouldn't be fair to burden her with the responsibility of caring for a dying friend.

A wave of self-pity washed over me. Iain was right. The wisest course of action would be to work until I couldn't work anymore. Then use the money in my savings account to make sure I'd have everything I needed when I checked myself into one of those hospices in the brochure .

But the only thing more depressing than dying in eight months was the thought of working for Iain until my body tapped out and I had to go to hospice.

Which is why I found myself answering, "Why would someone in my condition quit a well-paid job with private benefits? I guess because I'm a 25-year-old virgin who's never been anywhere further away from my childhood home than Scotland. I guess because I know exactly where my father came from in New Zealand, but I've never been there."

Hot tears spilled down my face as I both said and realized this aloud. The truth of how little I'd lived horrified me. But it also spurred me on to do better by myself.

"I have a little money in the bank—not a lot, but enough to go a few places. Like New Zealand," I told both Iain and myself through the tears. "So that's what I want to do. I want to go somewhere else that's not here … maybe have a fling or two … see things while I still can."

"Don't cry, Millicent." Iain took a tissue from the box on his desk and stiffly handed it to me. "I can't bear it."

Of course, he couldn't bear the sight of me crying. Iain hated drama. And tears. Me crying was another thing that wasn't up to his standards. And he looked away as if he was embarrassed for both me and himself.

"I'm sorry," I said, taking the tissue and hastily wiping away the offending tears. "I'll go type up my two-week notice, okay? I can email it to you, so I don't have to come in here again. I just wanted to tell you in person before I sent it."

He gave me a long, measured look before saying, "HR tells me most of the people we hire don't bother to read their contracts before signing them. I'm surprised to find out you' re one of those lackadaisical employees, Millicent."

I lowered the tissue. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean, if you'd bothered to read your contract in full, you'd know AlgoFortune requires a minimum of thirty days' notice if you wish to quit. Not fourteen, but thirty. Exactly."

He leveled me with a cool look. "So, write your letter if you want, Millicent. But if you leave this job in anything less than thirty days, you'll be doing yourself a great disservice. After our lawyers have finished with you, you won't even have that little bit of savings you need to go flitting about on your quest to …"

He pauses and gives me another derisive look before finishing with, " See things , and have sex with strangers you just met."

"What?" My heart withered inside my chest. "I don't understand. Why would you?—"

"You don't understand." Iain's face remained a hard mask. "Well then, let me make it very clear for you then, Millicent. Employees who quit in the middle of a project do not meet my standards. And that is why I had that clause put in every hiring contract. You will stay on until your thirty days are up, and not a day less, or I will sue you for everything you have. Now, do you understand?"

I stared at him in mute shock. Seriously … how could anybody be this cruel?

"I'm waiting for your verbal response, Millicent," he said, his voice cold as Scottish winter. "Do you understand that you'll need to stay on in my employ for thirty more days, or I'll be forced to sue you for breach of contract?"

For heaven's sake, I was only an assistant! The pitiful woman everyone in the office called Milly Mouse. Why on earth would he sue me just to make sure I served out a ridiculous thirty-day quitting clause? I opened my mouth to ask that very question.

But then a bolt of clarity struck me, and I suddenly understood something I'd only suspected before.

Iain, for all his various recurring five-figure donations to numerous charities, cared little for anyone or anything outside of his precious algorithms.

My cancer was an inconvenience. And if there was one thing that wasn't up to Iain's standards, it was being inconvenienced.

Most people wouldn't be this cruel. Most people would have at the very least, expressed sympathy. But Iain wasn't most people. And he had no problem showing his true colors … at least where I was concerned.

"Yes, I understand," I answered in the end, my tone dull and flat. Because what else was there to say?

"Good," he said, voice clipped as if he were the aggrieved party in this conversation. "Now, it appears I won't be finished with this code before my retreat. But I promised to have it to GUI by tomorrow. I'll take it with me to finish, and then you'll have to come up to my place in Faoltairn tomorrow morning to pick it up. 4:00 A.M. sharp."

"Are you serious?" I crooked my head, dull acceptance giving way to surprise.

While I'd arranged for countless deliveries to Iain's million-dollar flat in New Town, I wouldn't even know Faoltairn was a small Highlands mountain village if not for having to arrange for a special courier to drop off Lachlan's Father's Day gifts.

"You want me to come to your home in the Highlands?" I asked. "Like, the house where you grew up? "

Iain gave an impatient jerk of his head. "Nay, not there. My brother's taken over that place. I have another residence I keep for myself. As I said, I'll expect you there at 4:00 A.M. on the dot. I won't be there to meet you in person, of course, as I'll be camping. But I'll leave the algorithms on a thumb drive in my home office. All you'll need to do is go inside and fetch it off my desk."

Fetch it. Like a dog …

"You can go now," he said, dismissing me before I could say anything further. Then he went back to his computer, furiously typing as if he was angry with me for wasting even this much of his time with my dying stuff.

Love at first sight.

"Hello there, Millicent." I once again recalled how Iain had smiled down at me when I offered him my hand at the start of the interview.

That smile had hit me like a freight train. My heart had sped up, and my stomach had suddenly dropped with the sensation of falling.

Love at first sight . Those four words had floated into my head, rocking me down to my very soul.

And I'd actually thought Iain felt the same way too. He'd held my slender hand in his much larger one for way longer than was professional. And he'd gazed down at me with a look so soft, I'd felt for sure that this was the first meeting of soulmates.

But then his nose had flared, sniffing at the air like he'd smelled something rank. And just like that, his smile was replaced by the hard mask I'd come to know well in the years I'd worked for him.

One glimpse. It had been just one glimpse of a man I'd thought maybe I could spend the rest of my life with, but that small peek had haunted me ever since. And, despite all evidence to the contrary over the years I'd worked for Iain, I'd found myself wondering too many times to count if maybe—just maybe that guy who'd warmly said, "Hello, Millicent" was still lurking beneath my boss's hard and unfeeling exterior.

Well, now I knew the answer.

Iain Scotswolf was a 100% bastard. He didn't have an ounce of consideration for me, much less love.

The man obviously didn't even give two craps about me, and I'd been a fool to spend over three years of my life secretly hoping it might be otherwise.