Page 2 of Their Arrangement
And with every passing second, the ghosts crept closer.
I closed my eyes.
And I saw her.
Camille.
Her laugh. Her lipstick-stained coffee cup. The way she used to lean against my side like I was something permanent.
The last time I heard her, she said,Go rest. I’ll cancel. You’re sick
But she didn’t cancel.
She went out.
Alone.
And she never came home.
The elevator doors opened with a hiss.
The top floor welcomed me with silence. No background music. No warmth.
Only the hum of wealth.
Only the weight of expectation.
The receptionist sat at her desk, immaculate in her bun and pearl earrings. Her lipstick was the kind that didn’t smudge. She typed with long, perfectly manicured nails.
I cleared my throat.
She didn’t stop typing.
“I… I have an appointment,” I said, too softly. “I mean, I’m here to see Barron Lawlor. Or… any of them. My name is?—”
She held up a hand, as if silence was something she owned.
Her fingers tapped across her keyboard, eyes never leaving the screen. “Your name?”
“Cloe Woods.”
A pause. A flick of her gaze. Not recognition. Just recalibration. A name she had filed incorrectly.
“Take a seat,” she said. Already moving on.
I turned and sat slowly on the leather couch. It hissed beneath me as my thighs stuck to it. My skirt rode up again—I tugged it down, cheeks flushing. The run in my stocking had grown longer. A second one had started on the other leg.
Across the lobby, two women exited one of the executive offices, laughing. They were stunning—tall, blonde, surgically perfected. The kind of beautiful that came with a retainer and a publicist. One of them glanced at me. Not cruel. Not curious. Just indifferent.
Like I wasn’t there.
Like I wasn’t anything.
I waited.
Ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
