Emily effortlessly changed everything. From
the very first meeting, Emily had seen a part of her no one except Henrietta
had ever perceived—her vulnerabilities and her fears—and none of that made her
feel diminished or discounted. She didn’t always have to pretend she didn’t
hurt, didn’t need comfort, didn’t need someone else to be strong, if just for a
few moments. Emily allowed her to be human and didn’t reject her for it.
Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be out of Martin’s domain, beyond his
circle of malicious power, and somewhere, anywhere, with Emily.
“Ms. Winfield,” a cool male voice said from
behind her.
Steeling herself for the next round, Derian
turned and saw a man she didn’t know, but whom she recognized from his
perfectly cut hair, dark gray Armani suit, monochromatic shirt and tie, and
diamonds glinting in the square gold cufflinks, as one of the sleek corporate
sharks regularly following in Martin’s wake.
“Yes.”
“I’m Anthony Marconi, Mr. Winfield’s
executive assistant. I’m afraid Mr. Winfield wasn’t expecting you. He’s
presently involved in back-to-back Internet conferences.”
“I won’t be long. I’ll wait until he’s in
between.” She grinned. “Bathroom break or the like.”
Anthony’s expression remained pleasantly
remote. His eyes, however, were annoyed. “Perhaps we could find a mutually
agreeable time for you to return. His schedule is somewhat freer tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait.”
“If you’ll come with me,” he said, looking as
if he’d swallowed a fishbone, “I’ll show you to the executive lounge.”
“Thank you.”
The lounge, five times the size of the ICU
waiting room where she’d spent most of the last week, was furnished with a deep
navy carpet, leather furniture, a full bar, a coffee station, and a pool table.
Anthony left her to her own devices and, after pouring coffee from a silver
carafe into a bone china cup, settled into a chair to listen to an audiobook.
She considered calling Emily, but Emily was at work and she didn’t want to pull
her into this place even by talking about it.
Close to an hour later, Anthony reappeared.
“He has five minutes.”
“More than enough time.” Derian pocketed her
phone and left the china cup on the table beside the sofa. She followed Anthony
past a series of offices with closed doors to the end of the hall where another
admin, male again, sat in an alcove in front of a set of enormous walnut double
doors with gleaming brass handles. Anthony slid a security card through an
unobtrusive card reader off to one side and, at the discreet sound of a faint
buzz, held the door open for her. Martin’s office was a suite of rooms larger
than many apartments with layers of plush oriental carpets, multiple seating
areas, a flagship desk in one corner with views of Manhattan on two sides, and
an array of computer monitors on one wall. Anthony slipped out behind them and
the doors closed, leaving them alone.