Regina
The morning light in Jeff’s office was soft, filtering through the dust motes and catching on the spines of old veterinary manuals and leather-bound journals. It was a room that smelled of cedar and hard work, a stark contrast to the sterile, glass-and-steel canyons of Manhattan. I tried to appear calm and relaxed as I stared at the screen, but my heart was drumming a steady rhythm against my ribs—not out of fear, but out of anticipation.
I waited for Bruce Hemingway to finish his pitch about "suitable apartments" and "Triton’s generosity." He spoke with a rehearsed cadence, the kind used by men who think they are doing you a favor by allowing you to work for them. I waited until the silence on the other end of the call was expectant, almost smug. They were leaning into their came
