Mila stepped into the company like she owned it, head held high, back straight, heels a quiet echo across the marble floor. The scent of bergamot from the diffuser mixed with the sharper tang of freshly brewed coffee and printer ink. Everything looked the same. Everything felt different.
Phones were ringing in fast rhythm, voices murmuring too low to catch, but all of them knew. Their eyes said it. No one met her gaze for longer than necessary. The receptionist stammered a good morning but avoided her eyes like Mila was too blinding now, or too dangerous.
She reached her glass-walled corner office, dropped her purse onto the couch, and turned on the monitor. The screen lit up like fireworks. Her name was everywhere. Again.
Milena Montclair spotted ruining the Montclair.
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