She had never been prone to claustrophobia but in his presence and the tight space standing next to him, she felt closed in—trapped. She watched the numbers light up as they ascended the thirty floors. She involuntarily balled her hands into fist as she imagined herself clawing at the silver doors until they parted, throwing herself out into the open. Her chest tightened as hyperventilation took hold, seizing her lungs until finally, the doors opened into an office, and she remembered to breathe again.
The nameplate on the desk confirmed that this was his office—not Frederick Carlson’s. It was stark and bare compared to the main lobby of the building. There were two brown leather chairs positioned across from his desk giving the blank slate
The nameplate on the desk confirmed that this was his office—not Frederick Carlson’s. It was stark and bare compared to the main lobby of the building. There were two brown leather chairs positioned across from his desk giving the blank slate