Three cars, dark as thunderclouds, descended with an overwhelming force, trapping her with nowhere to escape.
At that moment, Assistant Cheney had already reached her, as usual, expressionless, respectfully saying to her, "Miss Prescott, President Lowell asks you to get in the car."
Claire Prescott looked into the car through the window.
She couldn't see anything.
Perhaps because his way of blocking was so imposing, it made her feel a certain tension she couldn't quite put into words.
She apologized to the taxi driver, then walked towards the black Maybach at the back.
As soon as she opened the rear door, she met a pair of deep, solemn eyes.
The man was dressed in a suit, sitting steadily in the single-seater, his figure blending into the dimness of the car, cold and detached, his eyes dark like thick ink, threatening to swallow her whole.
Claire Prescott paused at the car door, hesitant to get in.
But, it seemed if she didn't, he would stay blocked here.
