Penelope's POV
Bernard Dixon's executive suite screamed power and control. Rich walnut paneling covered the walls, an imposing desk commanded the space, and panoramic windows showcased the London skyline. Everything about this room was designed to make visitors feel small, insignificant. Powerless.
Bernie stood behind his desk reviewing files when I entered. The moment he noticed me, his movements stilled. Neither of us spoke for several heartbeats. Those piercing green eyes traveled over me with deliberate slowness, and suddenly I was back in that cramped airplane lavatory, breathless and desperate.
"Penelope," he said finally, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?"
"I'm good, thanks," I replied, moving toward the leather chair facing his desk. My voice came out calmer than expected, though my pulse hammered against my throat.
