Seven-thirty.
The hands of the cheap wall-clock sent a sharp jab of panic through Cixi's chest — Miranda would rap her knuckles raw if she slipped in after eight thirty.
Cassian noticed the flick of her eyes and followed it to the clock before he spoke without moving from the sofa.
"Phone your manager. Tell her you will arrive when I am finished with you."
"As if you are the country president, and she will understand and keep every policy aside because I am with you." Cixi could not understand how important he thought he was.
"Show her my picture, and she will probably overlook anything, even murder."
Cixi shut her eyes and chose not to respond, recognising that it was futile when there was a greater narcissist directly in front of her. "How long will you need?"
He answered by unfolding his long body from the seat. The morning light poured over him, turning the cut of his suit to charcoal and silver.
