Bree
“Hi,” I said, my voice wavering only slightly as I stood in front of the reception desk. “I’m here to see Mrs. Gobsmann.”
The man behind it looked up, his face neutral but polite, his smile small and professional. He pressed a button on his desk phone and muttered into it, “Your two o’clock is here.”
Before I even had a chance to breathe, the door behind me opened, and there she was. Charlotte Gobsmann.
“Miss Morgan,” she beamed, her voice warm and smooth, filling the air like she was already trying to set me at ease. “Please, do come in!”
I turned, offering her a tentative smile as I followed her into the office.
She was the picture of composed elegance—mid-fifties, though she carried herself with the kind of sharpness that made you think she had a decade less on her shoulders.
