The morning after a life-altering handshake is always the strangest. Sierra had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of her apartment, her mind replaying the "deal" like a movie on a loop. Theron's hand, his eyes, and the way the word boyfriend had sounded in his deep, resonant baritone, it was enough to keep any woman awake. She had told herself a hundred times that it was just a tactical maneuver, a shield against Mark's mediocrity, but the fluttering in her stomach wasn't following the script.
By 7:30 AM, Sierra was a whirlwind of frantic energy. She had changed her outfit three times, finally settling on a sharp, charcoal-grey pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse. She was in the middle of wrestling her hair into a neat bun, a hairpin clamped between her teeth, when a rhythmic, heavy knocking echoed through her front door.
