The elevator ride feels longer than yesterday, though it moves with the same silent efficiency. My legs feel tight, my palms damp against the folder clutched to my chest. When the doors open to Damian’s private floor, the cold, minimalist space seems sharper, more unforgiving. His assistant looks up from her desk and nods toward the meeting room without a single word.
He is expecting me.
I already knew that, but hearing it from the quiet movements of his staff, from the way no one questions my presence, sends a ripple of unease down my spine. As if this morning has been scheduled, planned, prepared. As if I was always going to come back.
The meeting room door stands open. I step inside. Damian is already there.
He sits at the same place as before, at the head of the dark table, a cup o
