That was how money smelled.
Understated.
There were three people stationed behind the desk—two men and a woman, all of them immaculately dressed and polished.
“Hi, I’m here to—”
One of the men glanced at me first. “Good morning, Mrs. Valentine.”
The world tilted.
I blinked. “I—”
The receptionist offered me a business smile, charmingly practiced.
“He’s expecting you.”
My stomach dipped.
“He’s… what?”
“He’s expecting you,” the man told me again. “The elevator is to your left.”
What (and I can’t stress this enough) the fuck?
How did the staff know who I was? Bysight, no less? I hadn’t even introduced myself. He’d just known.
Did Harrison pass around pictures of me?
My legs felt numb as they carried me over to the elevator to the left. Not, I must say, the elevator bank to the right. That was for the common people. This was the fancy, private elevator. There weren’t even any buttons inside, since it only went one place. The top floor.
I watched the door, trying to ignore the way my pulse had found some strange, erratic rhythm as the car slid silently up the building.
My thumb rubbed across the diamond on my ring finger as my nerves jangled in my bones.
The soft ding nearly made me jump out of my skin when I reached the top floor.
The doors slid open to a floor similar to the one below: the same flooring, lights, understated, but unmistakable wealth.
I took one step out of the elevator and glanced across the expansive space.
There was a seating area directly in front of the elevators with a smaller reception desk to the left of it. Only one woman stood there, typing on the computer as she cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder.
To the right of the elevator were a few doors and then a large conference room with an enormous gleaming table and no fewer than twenty chairs set around it.
My gaze slid forward again, past the seating area and to the glass wall that separated the waiting area from the CEO’s office.
There was no privacy. For anyone. Not even Harrison.
Behind the glass wall was a large dark desk, meticulously neat. In front of that, two seats for guests.
At the far end of the room seemed to be a coffee station or kitchenette.
Harrison himself was in his office, standing and looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me.
Seeing him sent an unexpected jolt through me. One I was desperately trying to label disgust or anger. But some part of me knew better.
“Can I help you, miss—” the secretary started to ask. Then fell silent for a second as I turned. “Oh! Mrs. Valentine. You can, of course, just go right in.”
