Monday morning usually had a specific rhythm.
The sharp, clean scent of William's expensive cologne, the hushed hum of the HVAC system, and the comforting weight of the week's schedule. But as I pushed open the heavy oak doors to William's office to deliver his routine coffee, the atmosphere felt... occupied.
It smelled of aged tobacco and a spicy, vintage aftershave that definitely didn't belong to William.
I stopped short, my hand still resting on the door handle.
Someone was sitting in William's chair.
He wasn't just sitting, he was reclining with an air of absolute ownership, his polished oxfords propped up on the edge of the mahogany desk. He looked to be in his late fifties, his silver hair swept back with military precision, wearing a charcoal suit that looked like it had been stitched by hand in a London basement.
And he was holding one of the folders I'd left on the corner of the desk on Friday.
