"You could have simply called, Ms. Sapphirus," Sagan began, his voice a low rumble that barely masked his annoyance. "I would have canceled my flight without hesitation and been at your office. It would have saved you the trouble of picking me up from the airport." He straightened his back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, his eyes narrowed as he assessed Amaya. Across the desk, Amaya sat, her legs crossed, a practiced smile curving her lips—a smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Amaya waited, her gaze unwavering, as Sagan meticulously signed each document. The scratch of his pen on paper was the only sound, a rhythmic counterpoint to the unspoken battle being waged. His face, a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and power, betrayed his inner turmoil. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the pen, and a vein pulsed visibly in his temple.
