Carrie had not planned on sitting down. In fact, when the receptionist first said "Your table is ready," her instinct had been to turn on her heel and walk straight back to the safety of her car. The day had already wrung her dry. Back-to-back meetings, endless edits, Sofia's reminders, Damien's commentary, Joan's deadlines. The last thing she needed was Andrew Lorenzo in a private dining room with a bottle of wine and that smirk.
Yet she hesitated.
The receptionist hovered anxiously, and Carrie hated making people uncomfortable. Her body ached from twelve hours in heels. And for one fragile moment, the thought of sitting down, even across from him, felt easier than another fight.
So she let herself be guided inside.
She told herself she would stand at the door, deliver a single sharp
