I could tell she was pressed by something today.
The Aurelia call.
I'd heard about it from ARIA on the drive over. Charlotte Thompson—the sweetest soul I'd ever met, the woman who'd paid bail for employees who'd betrayed her, who'd given severance to assistants who'd sabotaged her—had told someone to go to hell.
And it was eating her alive.
"Hey, princess."
Her head came up. Those soft brown eyes found mine, and something in them cracked. Not broke—Charlotte was stronger than that. But cracked, like ice under pressure, like glass that had taken one hit too many.
"Peter." She tried to smile. Failed. Tried again.
"Come on. We're going to dinner."
"Peter, I can't just—"
"You can. You're the CEO. You can do whatever the hell you want." I wiggled my fingers. "Come on, Thompson. Don't make me carry you."
She looked at my hand for a long moment. Then at my face. Then back at my hand.
She took it.
****
Charlotte drove.
