The Confrontation
Hargreaves arrived at eight fifty Monday morning. He walked off the lift with the smug confidence of a man who still believed he was untouchable. Silver hair perfectly styled, suit expensive, the nod he gave me the same dismissive one he’d given for weeks — as if I were part of the furniture. “Mr. Hargreaves,” I said, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse was racing. “Mr. Voss is ready for you.” He entered the office. I followed right behind him. Hargreaves noticed immediately. The slight stiffening of his shoulders when he realized I wasn’t staying outside. Lucian was already seated behind his desk like a king on a throne of glass and ice. Jacket on. Tie razor-sharp. Expression carved from pure winter. “Sit,” he ordered. No greeting. No handshake. Just a single cold command.
- Writer
