The receptionist’s perfectly manicured nail tapped against the edge of her desk as she glanced at the clock for the hundredth time that afternoon.
5:30 p.m.
Finally.
Margaret Chen gathered her designer purse and stood, smoothing her pencil skirt with practiced precision. Through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of Sullivan Enterprises’ Manhattan lobby, she could still see the woman standing on the sidewalk across the street, still there the way she’d been all day.
Margaret allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.
The girl was pretty—she’d give her that. Natural beauty, the kind that didn’t need the three layers of foundation Margaret wore to achieve “effortless” flawlessness. Glossy dark hair that caught the late afternoon sun, delicate features, and an almost ethereal quality that had sparked an ugly twist of envy in Margaret’s chest the moment she’d laid eyes on her that morning.
Which was exactly why Margaret had been so thoroughly, deliciously cruel.
The memory still warmed her.
The young woman had approached the reception desk at 8:45 sharp, her voice soft and trembling.
“I need to speak with Mr. Sullivan, please. Carter Sullivan. It’s… it’s urgent.”
Margaret had looked her up and down with deliberate slowness, taking in the simple cotton dress, the worn but clean sneakers, the complete absence of designer labels.
Not their usual clientele. Not even close.
“Mr. Sullivan doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” Margaret had said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “And his schedule is booked solid for the next six months.”
“Please,” the woman had whispered. “I just need five minutes. It’s personal.”
“Personal?” Margaret’s laugh had been sharp. “Mr. Sullivan doesn’t do personal visits at the office. Company policy. And you can’t wait here.” She’d lowered her voice into a mock‑apologetic purr. “Security regulations.”
