I whispered. “Under Clara Vance.”
The man speaking wore a gold nametag reading PATRICK.
His hair looked as though every strand had agreed to remain perfectly arranged. His suit was flawless. His smile appeared professional but lacked genuine warmth.
He examined me again.
Then entered my name into the computer.
Beside him, another receptionist named Karl leaned against the counter, watching with the faint amusement of someone anticipating entertainment.
Patrick typed for several seconds.
Then stopped.
“Nothing.”
“It was booked through the corporate office,” I said. “Please check the executive
