The afternoon sun poured through towering windows, catching the fine crystal glasses and polished silverware like a spotlight staged for the rich. Samantha walked through the entrance of The Aurum, a restaurant that never appeared on public maps but always had its tables full. It wasn't just a restaurant. It was a marketplace for power.
Everything inside gleamed: white marble floors underfoot, walls draped in muted silk, chandeliers cut from old-world diamonds. The quiet wasn't accidental—it was curated. No raised voices, no sudden movements. Only control.
"Miss Miller," a host said smoothly, greeting her like a woman half invisible. To them, Samantha wasn't Samantha Bradley, heiress or CEO. She was an assistant. A shadow.
And that suited her just fine. Her pencil skirt and sleek blouse gave her an assistant look.
