Secretary James's "three minutes" was precise, but the person who met Amanda at the entrance was one of Quentin's junior assistants. James himself was currently trapped in the boardroom, suffering through the fallout of a subpar project report while Quentin's irritation filled the room like a heavy fog.
Amanda was led to the executive lounge, where the assistant politely set out tea and delicate cakes. She sat quietly, her posture poised but guarded. She had no intention of removing her mask or touching the refreshments. In the world of showbiz, she knew better than anyone how a single misinterpreted photo could spark a scandal. She was here to see her husband, not to provide fodder for the company's gossip mill.
However, not everyone shared her discretion.
Carla Smith, an administrative coordinator, had caught wind of the "mysterious girl" James had sent an escort for. Jealousy flared in her chest as she recalled the day President Harris—the man who usually treated women like invisible statues—had gently led a similar girl out of the building.
Driven by a sudden, bitter impulse, Carla abandoned her desk and strode into the lounge. "If you're a human being, why are you hiding?" she began, her voice sharp and condescending. "Do you really not have the face to meet people?"
Amanda, who had been contentedly checking the temperature of her lunch box, looked up. She glanced at the woman standing before her with crossed arms and a sneer. Amanda blinked, her brow furrowing behind her mask. Where did this woman come from?
"Are you talking to me?" Amanda asked coolly.
Carla snorted. "Is there anyone else in here?"
Amanda raised an eyebrow, looking down at her own modest attire. "I'm wearing plenty of clothes. Which of your eyes is struggling to see that?"
"It's not the amount of clothes, it's the secrecy," Carla countered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Covering up like this... people would think you're some mistress being kept in the dark, afraid to show her face on the street!"
Under her mask, Amanda's lips curled into a dangerous smile. She was stunned that among Quentin's hand-picked staff, there was someone this insolent. Even if she were a total stranger, a professional would have maintained a polite distance.
Carla felt a sudden chill run down her spine as Amanda stared her down. She shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Amanda's piercing eyes, until Amanda finally spoke.
"Is this the 'professionalism' Harris Group is famous for? Looking at your behavior, I truly suspect you bypassed the HR process and came in through a back door."
Carla's face turned pale. She usually kept her temper in check, but Amanda's presence had triggered a warning bell in her heart that she couldn't ignore. "You... you don't know what you're talking about!"
"Then shut your mouth," Amanda snapped, her voice cold and commanding. "Unless you want to find out exactly how hard I can slap the arrogance off your face."
The sheer authority in Amanda's voice left Carla speechless.
The Boardroom
The meeting had been a disaster. Quentin sat at the head of the table, rubbing his temples, his mood sour. He remained in his chair, frowning at the failed projections, refusing to dismiss the room just yet.
Beside him, Secretary James was sitting on what felt like a pile of hot coals. He shifted back and forth, his restlessness creating a distracting friction against the leather chair.
Quentin finally snapped his eyes open. "What is wrong with you? You've been losing your patience for the last twenty minutes."
James didn't care about the reprimand. He looked at Quentin with frantic eyes. "Boss... the Madam has been here for a while now. Do you really blame me for being restless?"
Quentin's hand stopped mid-motion. "Who did you say is here?"
"Your wife, Boss! She's in the—"
James didn't even get to finish. The "impatient" CEO, who usually valued decorum above all else, practically bolted from the room, leaving his briefcase and his dignity behind.
"And he calls me impatient," James grumbled to the empty doorway.
Quentin reached the 30th floor, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He strode toward the lounge, but stopped just outside the door when he heard a girl's voice—cold and sharp as a diamond—telling someone to shut up.
He stepped into the room and took in the scene: Amanda, still fully covered but radiating fury, and Carla Smith, looking shaken.
"What is going on here?" Quentin demanded.
Carla pivoted instantly, her arrogant mask falling away to reveal a "good cat" persona. "President Harris! It was just my poor reception... I'm afraid I've made this young lady displeased."
She was clever enough to take the blame immediately, hoping to look humble in front of her boss. Amanda, however, just sneered. She turned her gaze toward Quentin—and the moment their eyes met, Quentin felt a physical chill settle on the back of his neck.