The air felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was the fact that my office had become the unofficial headquarters for whispered betrayal and passive-aggressive glances. Or maybe it was just Monday. Either way, I walked in like I wasn’t about to mentally shred the next person who looked at me like I’d slept my way into parking in Ryan Glasgow’s private garage... metaphorically and literally.
I was wearing black. Not funeral black... power black. The kind of black that says, yes I may be screwing a billionaire or I may just be a b***h with taste. Let them decide. My heels clicked so sharply across the glass floor that a few people actually flinched. Good.
Camille didn’t flinch. Camille never flinches. Camille just stood there like the haunted mannequin of chic cruelty
