The morning sun crept lazily over Notting Hill, its light spilling through Dianne’s curtains and landing on her face. She groaned, pulling the duvet over her head.
For a second, she hoped last night had been a dream — the phone message, the smug smirk, the contract she’d never meant to sign.
But when she turned her head, the folder from Sinclair Group sat mockingly on her nightstand, like a sealed promise she couldn’t escape.
“Damn it,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her temples. “Just my luck. From bride-to-be to corporate hostage.”
She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled to the mirror. Her reflection stared back — puffy eyes, hair sticking out at odd angles.
“Perfect,” she whispered dryly. “Just the look for a woman about to face her arrogant boss.”
After a long shower an
