The director’s office sat at the end of the private corridor. Rivera felt it the moment she stepped inside, how the air in the director’s office was different from the rest of the building.
The room smelled of cold espresso, expensive stationery, and the scent of Reagan’s cologne, a scent that had begun to haunt Rivera’s dreams.
Reagan didn’t tell her to sit. He stood behind the desk instead, his jacket already shrugged off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands braced on the polished wood as he studied her like a variable he hadn’t yet decided how to eliminate.
“Why are you here?” he asked calmly.
Rivera closed the door behind her and turned. “You asked me to come.”
His gaze sharpened. “I didn’t ask why you walked in. I want you to explain why my wife is in my lobby, wearing a name t
