FIFTY-TWO FLOORS UP

Zara Mitchell has three rules: never be late, never owe anyone anything, and never take the executive elevator. She breaks all three before nine a.m. on a Tuesday — and lands, by accident and terrible luck, on the private fifty-second floor of Ethan Kingsley's empire. Ethan is thirty-six, relentlessly competent, and has been quietly grieving his best friend for nearly two years while running a global corporation and a philanthropic foundation and pretending neither takes anything out of him. He has not laughed — truly laughed — in longer than he can honestly remember. He has forty-six unread emails from a dead man and a mother who has decided that what he needs is the one thing he's never been able to schedule. Zara is twenty-eight, broke in the specific way that happens when a parent's public disgrace dismantles everything you built in their shadow, and sharp in all the ways that come from learning young that the world will use your softness against you. She takes the job because she needs the money. She stays because something about the fifty-second floor — about the man who runs it — makes her feel, for the first time in two years, like herself. But someone doesn't want Zara on that floor. Someone with resources, a long memory, and connections to both her father's scandal and the corruption eating through Ethan's foundation. As they work together to expose what's been hidden, the professional distance clause in Zara's contract becomes the most honest joke either of them has ever signed their name to. FIFTY-TWO FLOORS UP is a contemporary billionaire romance about two people who are both very good at surviving and very bad at living — and what happens when the wrong elevator puts you exactly where you were supposed to be.