“Get out of my way,” a sharp, familiar voice demanded.

I stood up from my desk and smoothed my skirt.

The door to my office swung open, and Gloria Ralston stood in the doorway, her designer handbag clutched tightly in her gloved hands.

Gloria did not close the door behind her.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling beneath her cream-colored Chanel jacket.

The heavy scent of her expensive French perfume instantly filled my small, carpeted office.

“You,” Gloria said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as she glanced back at the young receptionist who was hovering in the hallway.

“Hello, Gloria,” I said.

I did not offer her a chair.

I remained standing behind my desk, my hands resting lightly on the cool, faux-wood laminate surface.

“Tell your girl out there to leave us,” Gloria said, gesturing vaguely behind her with a leather-gloved hand.

I nodded to the receptionist, who quickly retreated and closed the door.

The click of the latch sounded incredibly loud in the small room.

Gloria looked around my office, her eyes lingering on the metal filing cabinets and the cheap plastic water cooler in the corner.