Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
The building rises above the street with its dark glass and clean lines, understated in the way really expensive things often are. No big, gaudy sign or brass nameplate shouting for attention. No enormous logo stamped across the entrance.
JustConti Enterprisesetched into black stone beside the revolving doors, the letters precise and neat.
Benjamin Harper stops beside me and adjusts the cuff of his jacket. “This is subtle.”
Ainsley Torres tilts her head back to study the height of the building. “Subtle like a man wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar watch under his sleeve.”
I agree, but I don’t say anything.
I need my mind in the right place.
Calm, professional, certain.
Not hungry. Not desperate.
Not like a woman who left a stable job at a well-established firm six months ago because she was tired of being used for work no one else wanted to do, then denied credit for results everyone else enjoyed. Not like a woman who convinced two of her associates to leave their own stable jobs and jump into the unknown with her.
Not like a woman with apartmentandoffice rent due and a client list that is respectable, but not yet strong enough to let me sleep easily.
Today, I am Victoria Murray, managing partner of Murray Legal Group.
I resist the urge to fuss with my briefcase. It was a bit of a foolish purchase that I made after landing my first client. My last one was falling apart, and this one was just calling to me. It was money I definitely should’ve put back into the business, but I justified it by claiming I needed an elegant bag to take to meet with clients.
Right now, as I walk into the biggest meeting of my career, I rub the buttery leather straps between my fingers for luck.
The doorman opens the glass door before I reach it. He is older, broad through the shoulders, with silver at his temples and eyes that sweep over the three of us in one quiet pass.
“Ms. Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Conti is expecting you.”
Nerves punch me in the gut at the words.
This isn’t just some HR person or administrator we’re meeting with.
This is Mario Conti himself, CEO of Conti Enterprises.
“Thank you,” I make myself say in a calm, professional manner.
The lobby is beautiful but a bit cold. Dark stone floors that mirror the walls. Low modern furniture arranged in conversation areas that no one is using. A long reception desk sits ahead of us, staffed by two women in black blazers who look elegant and efficient.
Behind them, on the wall, are the words “Conti Enterprises” in the same lettering as outside.
Simple. Severe.
Ainsley leans in slightly. “I expected more chrome.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Billionaire villain aesthetic.”
Benjamin coughs.
I do not look at either of them. I can’t afford to.
