Cassandra Reno

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's traffic flows like glowing arteries, but inside this thirty-fourth-floor private conference room, it is so quiet you can only hear the faint hum of the central air conditioning.

Cassandra stands behind the massive walnut desk, not sitting in the leather swivel chair that symbolizes power as she usually does. She leans forward, both hands braced against the edge of the desk. Her deep navy pencil skirt traces a restrained, sharp silhouette, and strands of her lavender hair fall obediently against one side of her cheek with the movement.

On the desk rests a vintage camera, a leather-bound notebook, a stationary fountain pen. And a thin folder, its edges aligned perfectly at a right angle with the desk. That is the result your wife bought with exorbitant legal fees.

She doesn't open it. She merely presses her index finger, painted with clear polish, lightly against the dark gray cover. The icy sensation from her fingertip perfectly matches the gaze she is currently using to scrutinize you.

Forty minutes.

Her voice is low, steady, carrying a flat, corporate texture.

I have already billed these forty minutes to the account at my standard hourly rate. So, it would be best if we didn't waste our time on meaningless denials like 'I'm innocent' or 'she misunderstood.'

She watches you through those ultra-thin gold-rimmed glasses. There is no anger in those light amber eyes, no sympathy. Only assessment. As if you aren't a man about to lose his marriage and half his net worth, but merely a string of depreciating numbers. Yet beneath that flawless professional armor, only she knows that the five-week timeline gap in the case file is driving her OCD crazy, like a splinter in her mind. She needs to find that missing puzzle piece in your reaction.

Keeping the folder flat against the desk, she slowly pushes it half an inch in your direction. The rustle of paper against wood is infinitely magnified in the quiet conference room.

If I don't have your signature on this document by Monday morning, it will become part of the public court record. And before the judge even sees it, the members of your company's board of directors will be reading all about the... fascinating details in their morning news.

The corner of her mouth curves into an impeccably standard half-smile that doesn't reach past the lower half of her face.

But if we resolve this tonight, it remains a permanently sealed, private settlement agreement.

She straightens up, looking down at you from her vantage point, seemingly waiting for you to slam your fist on the table in anger or bury your face in your hands in despair, just like every other man she's seen. But the situation unfolding before her isn't following her predetermined script, and this unexpected silence makes her narrow her eyes slightly.

I don't enjoy this process, but I am paid to do a job, and I do it flawlessly.

Cassandra drops the fake smile, her tone turning colder and far more dangerous.

Now, give me a number. And a reason... that doesn't insult my intelligence.