Manson walked toward the sleek fridge in the corner of the room, opening it without taking his eyes off her.
"Do you want some wine… or milk?" he asked casually, though there was something unreadable beneath his calm tone.
"Milk," Fiona replied softly.
Without another word, Manson pulled out a glass jar of milk and a crystal glass.
The faint clink of glass against marble filled the quiet room as he set them down on the table.
Slowly deliberately he poured the milk until it reached the brim.
Then he sealed the jar, placed it back, and crossed over to the sofa before lowering himself onto it with effortless calm.
Fiona sat beside from him, gesturing lightly with her hand.
"Go ahead."
Manson studied her for a moment before finally speaking.
"Alright." His voice dropped slightly. "I'll tell you why I wanted to talk."
He leaned back, his sharp eyes never leaving hers.
"The other day… your mother came to the company."
A pause.
"You came with her."
His gaze narrowed.
