Chapter 4 - The Lobby Exodus
The private elevator chime dinged softly on the ground floor.
Grant Whitmore, stripped of his corporate badge, his access codes, and his dignity, was marched across the gleaming white marble lobby of Whitmore Tower under the watchful eyes of twenty junior analysts, receptionists, and passing engineers.
Word had already swept through the building like wildfire.
As Grant passed the security turnstiles, a young receptionist—a girl Chloe had humiliated three weeks earlier over a minor filing error—accidentally dropped a stack of cardboard moving boxes right at his feet.
Grant cursed, stumbling forward.
He looked up toward the mezzanine level.
I stood by the glass railing of the second-floor walkway, looking down at him with quiet detachment.
May you like
Our eyes locked for one final, agonizing second.
Then I turned away, walking back toward the executive suites without looking back.
