Lilian sighed inwardly, a silent breath of frustration slipping through her chest. She really was too green. Against a man as cunning and calculating as Morrison, she didn't stand a chance.
Then again, she told herself, it was probably just because she was sick—weak, feverish, and drained of energy. If she were in her usual state, she would have never let him tag along, much less chauffeur her to work.
So, she let him drive. On the way to the studio, she managed to nibble on some breakfast, take her medicine, and even doze off for a while.
It was her phone ringing that dragged her back from that hazy half-sleep. Blinking herself awake, she fished her phone from her bag. The caller ID flashed the photographer's name.
"Little Washington, you do know we were supposed to start half an hour ago, right?"
The photographer was a familiar partner—professional, but not unkind. His tone was more of a subtle reminder than a scolding.
