Lyra Moreau settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair in the Covington Group's resource library, a stack of basic materials at her side. Owen Barrett had practically thrown them at her earlier that morning with thinly veiled contempt.
"Start with these," he'd said, not bothering to hide his smirk. "They might be at your level."
The materials were elementary—introductory texts that any first-year undergraduate would find simplistic. She flipped through them quickly, her irritation mounting. Despite her credentials, she was being treated like an interloper, an unqualified wife who had slept her way into the company.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Percival's assistant. She ignored it. Whatever administrative matter Roman needed to discuss could wait. Right now, she needed to establish herself in this hostile territory.
