I didn't have the luxury of feeling sorry for anyone else. Everything I owned was stuffed inside a beat-up suitcase in a stairwell.
This outfit was the only thing I had that was even presentable. Ironed? Not a chance.
The creases pressed into the fabric by that suitcase, deep in some places, faint in others, matched my life perfectly. A wrinkled mess.
"Thelma Summers." The secretary called my name.
I stood and reached instinctively to straighten my collar, but my fingers met nothing but crumpled fabric and, in my pocket, the cold bite of a necklace against my knuckles.
A voice surfaced from memory: You're good, Thel. So you deserve the best.
The face behind those words gave me all the courage I needed. I squared my shoulders and walked in.
Benedict Fox stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me.
Tall, lean frame. A charcoal designer suit that fit like it cost more than most people's rent. Even his hair looked expensive.
"Give me the basics." His voice carried across the room, cold and clipped.
"Former project director at a Fortune 500 tech company."
"Your previous marriage."