Charles
Paul Stanley is sitting on the leather couch across from my desk like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, blue suit immaculate, dark hair slicked back just enough to look intentional. His blue eyes roam the office with open curiosity, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the dark oak shelves lined with law journals, the framed land deeds and pack insignia on the walls.
“Lovely office you’ve got here,” Paul says, whistling softly. “Honestly. I did not realize your law firm was this big.”
I do not react. I stay seated, fingers steepled on the desk, posture relaxed, expression empty. Let him look. Let him talk.
“Cut the act,” I say calmly. “Get to the point.”
Paul laughs, sharp and impatient, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Straight to business. I see.
