The printed document from the Milan Medical Board sat between us on the black desk like an open warrant for my arrest.
My lungs refused to expand, the air inside the penthouse turning into suffocating glass. Sarah stood directly across from me, her arms crossed over her pristine gray pantsuit, a cold, predatory triumph radiating from every line of her posture.
The red text on Julian’s executive desk phone continued to flash its damning truth in the quiet office: Line Intercepted.
Your blood work from Paris is a mismatch. Your physical walk is a mathematical anomaly. And your medical excuse from Milan is a complete, fabricated lie," Sarah whispered fiercely, her eyes drilling into my pale face.
The software wasn't wrong, ma'am. You are a fraud. And the moment Mr. Vance returns from th
