The building was intimidating. That kind of silent, glass-and-steel intimidation that didn’t need to announce wealth or power… it just whispered, “Blink wrong and we’ll remove your uterus with a tax audit.”
I stood in the lobby like a confused influencer at a crypto conference. Everything smelled like ambition and eucalyptus. Even the potted plants looked judgmental.
“Scarlett Farnsworth,” I said to the front desk lady who looked like she’d rejected oxygen for being inefficient. “I’m starting today. With Mr. Glasgow.”
She barely looked up. “Which one?”
“Ryan.”
Her eyes finally lifted. They scanned me once... shoes to follicles... and not in the friendly way. More like she was a scanner app and I was an expired QR code.
She typed something with long, coffin-shaped nails that probably
