Cassandra's perfume shifts in the air as she leans back, assessing my refusal. Her manicured nails tap against the conference table's surface—one-two-three, pause, one-two-three—a rhythm I remember from childhood, the sound she made when deciding on punishment. My ears pick up the subtle acceleration of her breathing, the small adjustment as she crosses her legs again beneath the table. Six years hasn't dulled my memory of her tells, the tiny signals that her control is being ...