I stepped off the elevator onto the executive floor and it was so quiet it almost hurt. Rain slamming the windows, city lights bleeding into these long, messy streaks outside. I stopped for a second—smoothed my skirt, tugged at my blouse, tried to get my breathing under control. My heart was doing that stupid teenage thing again, same as when I was eighteen and sitting in his senior English class, legs crossed tight under the desk while he dissected Keats like he was peeling skin, voice low and precise, making the whole room hold its breath.
He was already there. Back to me, standing at his desk, talking into that little digital recorder. Same tone. Nothing’s changed in—what, almost fifteen years? Every word still comes out clean, deliberate, like he knows you’re hanging on it.
“Miss Ade
