Ding!
The elevator arrived at the second-last floor with a soft chime that sounded far too innocent for the crime scene currently unfolding inside Evy's conscience.
The doors slid open, and she stepped into the hallway with her phone in one hand and her dignity limping somewhere several floors above. Warm golden lights stretched along the polished corridor, gliding over the walls in mellow bands, while the expensive carpet swallowed the sound of her heels with the professional discretion of a luxury that had clearly seen worse things than celebrities sneaking around like morally flexible raccoons.
None of it helped; the lighting, the scent of polished wood and faint perfume neither did the soft, ridiculous wealth of the hallway.
Her mind remained upstairs.
Because somehow—somehow that idiot had actually managed to call her exactly what she had been doing.
A stalker.
The word still sat in her chest like a tiny legal document with teeth.
