Morning spilled across Wolfe Enterprises in golden shafts, glinting off glass walls and polished steel. The building always seemed to wear the sun like armor, each surface catching the light in sharp, dazzling fragments. Yet beneath that sheen, Clara could sense the undercurrents.
Every corridor carried hushed tones that dropped an octave lower when she passed. Every glance, no matter how brief, seemed to linger half a second too long. She had taught herself to keep her chin high, her steps even, her expression neutral like a mask she couldn’t afford to let slip. But still, she felt it: the weight of silent questions pressing against her back.
Why her? Why did she remain so close to Nicholas Wolfe, when most of them barely earned a nod of acknowledgment?
She never had an answer. Not one
