Sandra POV
The note was slipped under my bedroom door at seven-fifteen in the morning: Please come to the study at nine. — A.
Not a request. Not a question. Just the time and the initial, like a calendar invite from someone who didn't have to wonder whether you'd show up.
I sat on the edge of the bed and read it twice, and then I got up and went to the wardrobe and started getting dressed—which I was annoyed at myself for doing with any particular care. I held the navy blouse against the grey one for longer than was reasonable, settled on the navy, put my hair up instead of leaving it loose, then stood at the mirror and looked at the result and told myself very clearly that I was not arranging myself to be taken seriously by a man who'd looked back down at his contracts while I was mid-
