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1
Oliver
Taking a few seconds, I shake off my tiredness, shoring my resolve before I stride into the massive building. If this meeting goes well, it will be my new home for the next few months.
I’m taken aback by the flashy reception area, gleaming marble floors, overly extravagant fountain in the center of the sprawling room, and the utterly pointless gold chandeliers.
There are already two individuals in the waiting room. They are biding their time with magazines on their laps, their eyes glazed over. As I pass them, I slide my eyes over to the men who are putting up the newly acquired business’s name—the new name. The four men struggle to lift what looks like the letter T.
Starr Enterprise.
Behind carefully schooled features, I manage to hide my disgust.
The company is still struggling to survive, yet the new owner is already making expensive changes. This entire place is starting to resemble a hotel entrance rather than a company. Agitated, I roll my shoulders.
Caleb Starr is going to learn that I often speak harsh truths.
I approach the reception area, my dark blue trench coat flapping at my ankles with a grey suit underneath, perfectly pressed. The receptionist, a cheerful-looking thing, glances up and blinks.
As I reach her, she gives me a polite smile and immediately asks, “Mr. Thornton?”
Surprised and oddly pleased by her efficiency—the first good sign I’ve seen since I stepped in here—I nod.
She gestures toward the elevators at the opposite end of the front entrance, right beside where the workers are struggling. “Mr. Starr is waiting for you. Seventh floor. Conference room one. Someone will be waiting there to guide you.”
Quick and efficient.
“Thank you…” I glance at her nameplate. “Miss Smith.”
If she notices my British accent, she looks unfazed, just giving me a slight nod, obviously pleased by my manners. Then, she frowns, as if battling with herself, before lowering her voice. “Don’t ask for the cappuccino.”
I blink at the sudden change from polite receptionist to this narrow-eyed one who looks as if she’s whispering company secrets.
When I raise a brow, she hurriedly says, “Trust me.”
Regarding her for a moment longer, I incline my head, not saying anything.
The walk to the elevator is short, my briefcase light.
The humming of the cage along with the slight disorientation makes my eyes close. I hold back a yawn, my jet lag still not having subsided.
The seventh floor hums with activity, the scent of freshly brewed coffee jolting my senses and reminding me of the hushed warning from the pretty little receptionist. Stepping out of the elevator, I glance around. There’s a wide expanse of floor divided into two parts, with me standing in the center. One side has been divided into several offices with glass doors. Opposite are rows and rows of cubicles, where people are hunched over their computers, strain on their faces. The other side has rooms to the left and right. People walk about, wearing harried looks.
The atmosphere is tense—almost as if everybody is waiting for the axe to fall.
A hushed silence falls as my presence is noted. Nobody bothers to hide the dread on their faces. My gaze settles sharply on a man leaning against the desk of a pretty blonde, who is flirting in return. They’re the only ones who haven’t registered my arrival.
However, that soon changes. The woman casually glances over in my direction. The flare of interest in her eyes has the man irritably looking over.
He promptly freezes.
