By the time Clark stepped into the elevator, he already knew his day had taken a sharp left turn.
Wolfe Holdings did not get interruptions.
It got appointments and carefully scheduled meetings.
It got men in tailored suits who understood rules, protocol, and the simple beauty of waiting their turn.
It did not get men who refused to sit down, rejected bottled water, and demanded to "see their wife" in the middle of a high-level interview session.
Which was exactly why Clark was already irritated.
The man near the reception desk was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed expensively. He was dressed in the kind of way that suggested he owned shares in the building itself—or at least believed he should.
His jaw was clenched. One hand gripped his phone like he was seconds away from using it as a weapon. The other drummed impatiently against the marble counter.
"Mr. Creed?" Clark called.
The man turned slowly, lips curling into a smug half-smile.
