Rhysand.
The private elevator opens directly into my office suite on the top floor. Mark is waiting just outside his expression tight.
“She’s been here for more than twenty minutes,” he says quietly. “Drinking champagne.”
I don’t answer. I simply push past him and step inside.
Mrs. Langford rises from the leather chair like she’s on a runway. She’s young looking, probably mid-forties, with dark hair swept out of her surgically perfect face and a red dress hugging every curve.
It’s the kind of beauty that costs more per month than most people make in a year. She smiles, slow and knowing, holding out a flute of champagne.
“Rhysand,” she purrs. “You kept me waiting.”
I don’t take the glass. “I don’t drink during meetings.”
Her laugh is soft, practiced. “Always so serious. Sit. Pleas
