The scratching of the Montblanc fountain pen against the heavy, cream-colored bond paper was the only sound in the executive suite. It was a rhythmic, scratching whisper, louder to Mark Sterling\u2019s ears than the autumn storm currently battering the reinforced glass windows of the forty-fifth floor. To Mark, that sound was the sweet, symphonic overture of victory. To his lawyer, the elderly and perpetually anxious Mr. Henderson, it sounded disturbingly like the winch of a guillotine being hoisted, locking into place before the drop.<\/p>\n
Mark leaned back in his Eames leather chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He crossed his legs, adjusting the crease of his Italian trousers, an arrogant, predator\u2019s smirk playing on his lips. He looked at the woman sitting across the expanse of the mahogany table.<\/p>\n
Elena Sterling. His wife of fifteen years.<\/p>\n
She looked\u2026 diminished. Small. She was wrapped in a beige trench coat that washed out her pale complexion, buttoned up to her chin as if she were cold, despite the climate-controlled perfection of the office. Her hands, devoid of rings, were folded neatly in her lap. For a decade and a half, she had been the silent shadow behind Mark\u2019s brilliance. She was the woman who organized the charity galas that bought him social capital, the woman who managed the household staff with military precision, and the woman who endured his legendary temper with the patience of a saint.<\/p>\n
Or, as Mark preferred to think of it: the patience of a doormat.<\/p>\n
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