The room was still heavy from before. Zara sat on the couch, trying to shrink into the cushions, her chest raw. Jake stood by the bar, whiskey in hand, his profile hard under the lights.

The elevator doors had barely closed when Margaret crossed the room like she owned it. She didn’t sit at first. Her eyes scanned the walls, the guards outside, the silence. Then she turned on Jake.

“Charlotte came to me,” she said, clipped. “She tells me your secretary has been running wild. ...