—Mabel—
“Everything is ready. The team is waiting for you downstairs,” Mr. Martins announced.
I glanced again at the vanity before me in the extra room of my office.
Today was the first official meeting for the contract, scheduled to take place at the Ronald Reagan Building by 10 a.m.
The wall clock behind me read 8:45 a.m.
I’d reported to work as early as 7. The triplets were still asleep, worn out after a long night with their new puppy.
Upon arrival in my office, I’d changed into one of Mr. Émile Laurent’s newest creations: a custom-tailored emerald-green power suit, sculpted to hug my silhouette. It matched a pair of wide-leg trousers that fell over my perfectly polished black stilettos.
The glam team had come and gone. My makeup was soft yet defined.
My hair was pulled into a
