The morning after the disastrous rooftop charity auction, Xaviere discovered that Zeraida Winterland possessed a truly remarkable talent for pretending nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.
She glided into the sunlit breakfast room precisely fifteen minutes after he took his seat, impeccably dressed for an early talent agency meeting while clutching her digital tablet beneath one arm.
"Good morning, Xaviere," she greeted him with polished, effortless courtesy.
Xaviere lowered the quarterly financial report in his hand, his dark eyes analyzing her calm face. "Good morning, Zeraida."
Instead of taking her usual seat near his side, Zeraida pulled out the plush leather chair situated at the opposite end of the long mahogany dining table.
She was sitting completely out of reach. She was not close enough to steal fresh fruit from his plate, nor close enough to mock his terrible morning routine.
