The leather of the visitor's chair was still warm from her body when Sylvia stepped back into the cool, silent hallway. The solid oak door clicked shut behind her, sealing away the smell of old paper and Ben MacLen's quiet confidence. Her own hand felt warm where he'd shaken it—a firm, dry grip that had held a beat too long. She flexed her fingers, staring at the grain of the wood door as if the case details might be written there.
Her heels were too loud on the polished floor. The sound echoed, a metronome counting down to something. cLen Motors. The name was a pebble in her shoe. A coincidence, surely. A common enough suffix. But the cold, slick feeling in her stomach suggested otherwise. She stopped walking, her reflection a stark, tailored blur in the dark window of a conference room.
"Miss Benson?" His assistant’s voice was polite, puncturing her stillness. "The file and address should be in your inbox. Mr. Adams said to prioritize it."
She nodded, a professional reflex. "Thank you." The words tasted like dust. She turned toward the bank of elevators, the path she’d walked ten minutes ago now feeling like a different corridor entirely. The promotion, the partner track, the corner office—it all shimmered ahead of her, a mirage. And this case, this strangely named client, felt like a crack in the earth opening right at her feet.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Empty. She stepped inside, the mirrored walls multiplying her image into infinity: a legion of sharp brunettes in impeccable suits, each one looking just as unsettled as the last. She pressed the button for her floor. As the car began its descent, she closed her eyes. Not Scott. Please, not Scott.