Damon's POV
"Mr. Westin, your father has arrived. He's waiting in the executive lounge," Godson's voice crackled through the intercom, tight as a drawn wire.
I froze. I'd been scrolling through Aria's reinstatement appeal draft when his words hit me like a freight train. My father—Marcus Westin—was in the building. The last time I'd seen him face to face had been nearly three years ago, when he handed me the company keys with a look that said, Don't mess it up.
"Tell him I'll be there in five," I said, though I was already on my feet.
Godson paused. "He said… don't keep him waiting."
Of course he did.
I closed the laptop with a soft snap, adjusted my navy-blue suit jacket, and smoothed my tie knot. My reflection in the glass wall looked sharp, practiced. But inside, my stomach coiled with nerves.
