“Nothing important.”
It was the smallest hesitation.
But judges survive on small hesitations.
Before I could press him, he kissed me again and walked out.
Seven minutes later, the door flew open.
Margaret Whitmore entered wrapped in silver fox fur and saturated in expensive perfume.
The scent reached me before she did—jasmine, powder, and something sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. Her heels struck the floor in hard, decisive taps. Behind her, the door swung shut with such force that the framed landscape beside it rattled.
She did not look at me first.
She looked at the room.
Her gaze swept across the upholstered chairs, the private bathroom, the river view, the polished coffee table, the folded cashmere blanket provided for guests.
Her mouth tightened.
