My new billionaire boss was expecting a man.
I discovered that the way you discover most things in private service: instantly, publicly, and with hot tea involved.
Then he looked at me.
The entire system failed.
His hand jerked, tea spilled over his wrist, and his mouth parted on a breath so sharp it almost counted as a sound. The tea hit the rug, the cup rattled against the saucer, and Adrian Kessler stared at me as if I had walked into his library carrying a firearm instead of a leather folio.
“Mr. Kessler,” Graham said, with the grim dignity of a man choosing professionalism over panic, “Jordan Bennett.”
Adrian’s eyes did not leave my face.
“Welcome to my,” he said.
Nothing followed.
