Thirty minutes after the great mid-morning crisis, the elevator doors of the penthouse glided open to reveal David.
The primary assistant to the King of Sterling Global looked as though he had just completed a tactical extraction in a war zone. His tie was slightly crooked, his breathing was uneven, and his hands were wrapped around a brown paper bag with a reverence usually reserved for treaty documents. The rich, smoky, deeply spiced scent of roasted meat, cayenne pepper, and raw red onions immediately filled the pristine, minimalist air of the living room.
David stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the fortress of pillows on the sofa where Maya sat, her arms crossed over the massive dome of her eighth-month belly.
