The knock was soft at first, like someone unsure whether they should even be at the door. Sarah barely lifted her head.
Her mind was buried in the latest memo from Adrian, her eyes dragging back to the same sentence over and over again, unable to shake off the feeling that something bigger was brewing beneath the surface.
Then her assistant pushed the door gently.
“Ma’am, one Miss Martha Painter is here to see you.”
The name hit her like a jolt of electricity.
Her chair shifted back sharply as she sat upright. “Let her in,” she said quickly, her voice firmer than she expected.
Moments later, the door opened again, and Martha stepped in — calm, stylish as always, and carrying that same stubborn confidence that used to drive Sarah crazy in their younger years.
They stood staring at
