Chapter 1

ONE

T he screen on Samara Quinn’s desk flashed red, pulling her attention from the complex geological survey data she’d been analyzing. Another tremor. The fourth one this week in an area that shouldn’t be showing any seismic activity. She leaned closer to her monitor, fingers flying across the keyboard as she pulled up the data visualization.

“That’s not right,” she muttered, reaching for her coffee only to find the cup empty. The patterns emerging from her monitoring system were clear—and deeply concerning. Small tremors increased in frequency, following a line that corresponded perfectly with her predicted fault pattern. A pattern her colleagues had dismissed as “speculative” just last week.

The fluorescent lights of her office buzzed overhead, a constant reminder that she’d been here since dawn. Again. Her “office” was really more of a converted storage room, tucked away in the basement of Reynolds Geological Consulting’s Manhattan headquarters. At least it was private, even if she could hear the building’s ancient pipes groaning through the walls.

Her phone buzzed. Lydia’s text read: Still coming to the charity thing tonight? Don’t you dare bail on me!

Quinn grimaced. The charity gala. She’d completely forgotten. Her eyes darted to the garment bag hanging on her office door, containing the cocktail dress Lydia had forcibly taken her shopping for last weekend.

Might have to skip. These readings are ? —

Lydia’s response was immediate: Don’t even think about it. I’ve watched you work 80-hour weeks for months. You’re coming to this party if I have to drag you there myself.

The data shows ? —

The data will still be there tomorrow. You promised! Besides, half the geology department donors will be there. Network a little. Maybe find someone who actually listens to your warnings.

Quinn sighed. Lydia was right. She’d been working nonstop since identifying the potential fault line under the proposed luxury development site. So far, her warnings had fallen on deaf ears.

A knock on her door interrupted her brooding. “Come in.”

Andrew Matthews’s perfectly coiffed head appeared around the door, his expression already set in what Quinn thought of as his “mansplaining smile.”

“Sam, good, you’re still here.” He didn’t wait for her response before continuing. “The board wants the preliminary report on the Highland Development site by tomorrow morning’s meeting. Just the overview—we don’t need all the technical details.”

Quinn’s jaw clenched at the casual dismissal of her title. “It’s Dr. Quinn, Andrew. And those ‘technical details’ show a serious risk of?—”

“Just keep it simple,” he cut her off, already backing out the door. “No one wants to wade through pages of data. Hit the highlights, leave out the theoretical stuff.”

“The ‘theoretical stuff’ could prevent a disaster!” But she was talking to an empty doorway. Andrew had already gone, probably to mansplain something else to another female colleague.

Quinn turned back to her monitor, fighting the urge to throw something. The data wasn’t theoretical—it was right there, clear as day for anyone who bothered to look. But getting the board of directors to take her seriously was like trying to explain quantum physics to a goldfish.

Her phone buzzed again. Lydia had sent a series of threatening emojis followed by: I mean it, Quinn. Party. Tonight. Or I’m telling your mom about that time in Iceland.

That’s fighting dirty, Lyd.

You love me anyway. Pick you up at 7. Wear the blue dress.

Quinn glanced at her cluttered desk—stacks of research papers, three empty coffee cups, and printouts of seismic data covering every available surface. The responsible thing would be to stay, to keep working on the report, to try one more time to make them listen.

But Lydia was right. She needed a break before she lost her mind.

Fine. 7 it is. But I’m not staying late.

That’s what you said at last year’s Christmas party before you got into that two-hour debate about volcanic formations with Professor Harrison.

He was wrong about the magma channels!

Just be ready at 7, you gorgeous geek.

Quinn couldn’t help smiling. She and Lydia had been inseparable since graduate school when they’d bonded over their shared love of science and hatred of academic politics. Where Quinn was all focused intensity and dry humor, Lydia was a whirlwind of enthusiasm and optimism. Somehow, it worked.

She turned back to her data, determined to document everything perfectly before the board meeting. Maybe this time they’d listen. Maybe this time they’d see what she saw—a disaster waiting to happen if someone didn’t act soon.

The afternoon slipped away in a blur of calculations and graphs. Quinn barely noticed the time until Lydia’s voice startled her from her work-induced trance.

“I knew you’d still be here.” Lydia stood in the doorway, already dressed for the gala in an emerald-green dress that made her red curls look like living flame. “You have exactly forty-five minutes to transform from dedicated scientist to sophisticated partygoer.”