In the reception area of Marisol Fashion House, Susan sat with the rigid posture of a woman who had been waiting far too long. Her fingers drummed against her thigh with each rotation, seeming to tighten the muscles in her jaw.
Vessara sat beside her, hands clasped on her thighs. Her shoulders dropped a little each time the glass door chimed, but it wasn't the person she expected.
Mia watched her watch. Her lips catching between her teeth and her fingers, twisted together until the knuckles went white.
"He should be here soon," Mia said, though she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince.
Vessara didn't turn to look at her but she nodded once. "He should." But her voice betrayed her. There was a tremor in it. Thin and fragile.
