Sophia spent the entire morning convincing herself that Christoph Richter had simply forgotten she existed. She told herself he was busy. Overworked. Preoccupied by billion-peso contracts. Perhaps he had even attained selective amnesia brought on by excessive legal analysis. She would have accepted divine intervention if necessary.
Anything, absolutely anything, to avoid facing him after last night’s terrace fiasco.
She buried herself in work, though work felt personally attacked by how distracted she was. Every email she answered echoed with the memory of that blonde woman reaching for his zipper. Every content approval came with a flash of Christoph’s deadpan expression as he reluctantly endured being kissed. Every spreadsheet reminded her she had shouted at an international lawyer to
