The door swung open on silent hinges. The room beyond looked exactly like what it was supposed to be: a temporary workspace for someone important enough to merit privacy but not important enough to warrant a permanent office. Standard desk. Two chairs. Window overlooking the quad. Bookshelves lined with legal texts and hunter regulations that nobody had touched in months.
Cassandra Davenport sat behind the desk with her hands folded on the surface and her posture communicating absolute control over everything within a three-block radius. Up close, the resemblance to Blair was stronger and also somehow worse. Same red hair, though Cassandra's was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that probably cost more to maintain than my entire wardrobe. Same aristocratic bone structure that made every expression look like judgment passed down from on high. Same blue eyes that tracked movement with the casual intensity of a predator who had never needed to hurry.
