Rachel Foster linked her arm through Kingsly Scott's as they disembarked from the private jet. Two rows of sharply dressed men assembled on the tarmac below.
A deep, commanding voice rang out, "Mr. Scott!" It was unmistakable. Rachel's laughter froze mid-rebuke. In an instant, she turned toward the source of the sound. Standing in a neat formation, flanked by two rows of black-suited security, was Helen, who had a courteous smile. "Mr. Scott, Madam," she greeted formally.
Kingsly strode forward and, without missing a beat, inquired coolly over his shoulder, "Everything's in order at the company?"
"Everything is fine for now, but if you keep taking leave, I'm afraid…" Helen began hesitantly.
Kingsly shot her an icy look. "It's just one week. And you look like you're drowning in work already."
