Marissa
Wendy, Justin's fiancée, swept into the office like she owned the place. Her eyes did a deliberate scan of the room, a queen surveying her less-than-impressive domain.
She was clearly one of those people who needed to be the center of attention.
I’d been hunched over my desk, working. My to-do list was already a mile long, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. Wendy strutted directly to my workstation. Her designer handbag, probably worth more than my last three months’ salary, landed with a thump on top of my notes.
“Sparkling water,” she announced. “And make sure it’s chilled. None of that room-temperature nonsense.”
That was it. No “hello.” No “excuse me.” Not even a cursory “could you possibly.” Just the command, delivered as if I were her servant.
For a beat, I stared at the ridicu
