The heavy steel doors of the private elevator slid apart with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
Diana Lockridge stepped out of the carriage. She wore a tailored, camel-colored trench coat belted tightly at her waist, the collar popped up against the November chill.
Large, dark sunglasses obscured her eyes. She carried a sleek black leather clutch. She moved with the aggressive, unbothered posture of a woman accustomed to owning the airspace around her.
She stepped onto the Persian rug of the foyer, pulling the sunglasses off her face in a single, fluid motion.
She stopped dead.
Her expensive Italian heels froze against the hardwood. The breath physically vanished from her lungs.
Zara Osei stood six feet away, holding a crystal wine glass.
The supermodel was wearing a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a thin, ribbed white tank top. It was the casual, proprietary stance of a woman standing in her own home.
