The conference room smelled like polished wood, tension, and too much cologne.
Sari sat perfectly still, hands folded neatly on the table, the kind of posture she used in operating theaters, calm, clinical, controlled. But under the surface, her pulse was quick, coiled tight like a drawn wire.
She had promised Mariella she would behave. No sharp words. No sarcastic jabs. No losing her temper.“Let him talk himself into a hole,” Mariella had said. “That’s how men like him fall, under the weight of their own arrogance.”
Easier said than done.
Because across from her sat Matthew Elizalde, pristine navy suit, unbothered smirk, the same air of unshakable confidence that made her want to throw her chair through the window.
He looked like he was born in that seat, commanding, polished, perfec
