The attendant who returned was not soft-spoken. He didn't smile. He didn't offer her tea or polite courtesies—only a single nod before gesturing for her to follow.
Vanessa's heels clicked too loudly on the marble floor, each step echoing a little more than she liked. Her fingers tightened on the envelope. Her throat burned from holding back the instinct to scowl.
They didn't take her to a receiving room or any sitting area meant for guests.
Instead, she was led down a corridor suffused with filtered sunlight, toward a side terrace that overlooked one of the quieter gardens. The scent of morning citrus trees drifted faintly on the breeze. Everything looked clean, deliberate, and expensive. She paused at the threshold as her guide stepped aside.
Trevor Fitzgeralt was already there.
