As the conference room gradually emptied, Phoebe remained at the marble conference table, her slender, manicured fingers methodically organizing the stacks of documents left behind after the meeting. Most of the executives had already departed, their conversations fading into the distance until the room settled into an almost unsettling silence. Only one person remained. At the far end of the room, the older foreign executive sat motionless, his sharp gaze fixed unwaveringly on her. There was something unsettling about the way he watched her—too intent, too familiar—that quietly set every instinct on edge.
"Miss Phoebe."
The smooth voice broke the silence.
Mr. Norman Fletcher rose from his chair with the easy confidence of a seasoned businessman. At first glance, he looked every bit the polished executive—well-tailored suit, refined manners, an impeccable smile. Yet something lurking beneath that pleasant exterior made her instincts whisper that she should keep her guard up.
