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“How is it I can be of service to you this morning? Is it the gym you seek? Perhaps breakfast?”
“Where are my things I came in with last night?”
“Your phone is being charged in the living room. Your clutch is beside it.”
“And my dress?”
“The garbage, Miss Pierson.”
“Why!?”
“Per Mr. Whittington’s orders.”
Folding my arms firmly across my chest, I hold onto the fight I know I’m going to need. “And where exactly is Elias? I want to see him. Now.”
His eyes sweep my attire prior to him snipping. “You should change first.”
“No.”
“If it is an audience with Mr. Whittington you are requesting, I’m advising you to change into something…more appropriate for his company.”
“And I am advising you to take me to him before I call the cops for kidnapping.”
Kidnapping is a hard sell, Zel…
“Your funeral” flashes in the butler’s gaze prior to him clearing his throat. “Very well, Miss Pierson. Follow me.”
Feeling victorious, I keep my head and confidence held high. I’m led downstairs, past the elevator where I entered Elias’s apartment and past the kitchen, where we dined alone last night ,to the opposite side of the home.
Dietrich doesn’t stop until we’ve reached the end of the hall, which is when he glowers once more at my choice of clothing and motions his hand towards the door.
I give him a smirk that tells him he doesn’t scare me, yet it instantly fades the second he can no longer see my face.
No.
Uptight butler doesn’t scare me.
What lies on the other side of the door does.
Two taps are given on a held breath.
Relax, Zel. You got this.
“You may enter.”
I may enter?
May?
Seriously?
How could I even consider living somewhere that I have to be “allowed” to enter certain rooms?
My heart lurches into my throat as I step into a room that undeniably smells like wealth and power. Hints of cologne linger throughout the room alongside that of leather, a scent which could be coming from his chairs, his couch, or even the books on display to my left.
Elias, who is sitting behind a long glass desk, doesn’t bother looking up from the organized stacks of documents he seems to be reviewing. “Speak.”
I wait until I’m directly on the other side of his desk to do so. “Good morning, Mr. Whittington.”
