CALCULATED TRAPS
Dr. Dominic Sinclair twisted his neck until it popped, dragging his feet down the sterile corridor of the VIP coffee. Tossing his medical charts onto his office desk, he turned on his heel and marched toward the staff break room, his sanity hanging by a thread. His skull throbbed with a desperate craving for black coffee. He had decided he would check on his love-struck cousin only after his own pulse slowed down; otherwise, dealing with those two lunatics would undoubtedly send him to an early grave. He strode down the VIP corridor toward the private staff breakroom, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside. On the other side of the locked door, the air was heavy, thick with the scent of expensive cologne. Annah stood pressed against the edge of the counter, her breath coming in ra
- Writer
