In his right hand, he clutched a crumpled manila envelope.

He scanned the open-plan office, his eyes darting past the reception desk until they locked onto me.

“Avery,” he said, his voice carrying across the quiet room.

Several coworkers turned their heads from their monitors.

I stood up from my desk, my knees slightly shaking.

“Scott, you need to leave,” I said, keeping my voice as level as possible. “You can’t be here.”

He ignored me and marched down the carpeted aisle, his leather shoes squeaking against the floor.

He stopped right in front of my desk, smelling of stale coffee and cheap cologne.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Now.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” I said. “Talk to Jerome.”

He slammed the manila envelope down onto my desk, knocking over a plastic cup of paperclips.

The paperclips scattered across my keyboard and the grey laminate surface.

“I’m not talking to your lawyer, Avery,” Scott hissed. “I’m talking to my wife.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Marcus step out of his glass office.