The next morning, I arrived at Ever Tower with dark circles beneath my eyes and enough concealer to qualify as structural engineering.
Sleep had been elusive.
Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered Augustus describing my midnight-blue dress—or Margaret announcing that someone had deleted records while I was upstairs.
In the elevator, I reread a message Augustus had sent after I reached home.
Thank you again for dinner. I hope you managed some sleep.
Augustus Evans, voluntarily expressing concern about another person's sleeping habits.
Remarkable.
I'd drafted three replies before settling on:
You're welcome. Please remember that food is a human requirement, not an optional executive benefit.
At eight-forty-five, the seventieth floor was unusually quiet. Augustus's office lights were already on.
He looked immaculate behind his desk, despite having apparently worked all night.
Did Harvard distribute industrial-strength concealer alongside business degrees?
