Jules drooped. Maybe it hadn’t been as dramatic a choice as she’d thought. Well, on today of all days, she couldn’t blame Vivian for not noticing. “Um, the receptionist said we can’t go in yet.”

Vivian’s eyes darkened.

“But there’s a cafeteria,” Jules added. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes.” She stalked over to the reception desk.

Jules followed her and arrived in time to see the receptionist give Vivian a look of pure hatred. She also looked frightened, though, and picked up her phone.

“Mr. Praeger,” she said, “Vivian Carlisle has arrived, but I know your meeting with her isn’t until—” She stopped and scowled. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.” She glared at Vivian. “You can go on up. Ninth floor.”

Vivian kept looking at her.

“Ma’am,” the receptionist mumbled.

Apparently satisfied, Vivian turned on her heel and strode toward the elevator. Getting knocked up hadn’t robbed her of the ability to scare the crap out of random strangers.

Jules hurried after her, trying not to slip on the marble floors in her four-inch heels. By the time she caught up with Vivian, the elevator doors were sliding open. Jules followed her inside.

Vivian mashed the button for the ninth floor. “You let her say no to you.”

“Um—”

“I’m disappointed in you.”

Jules gaped at her. “Wh-what?”

“When you’re dealing with somebody, you do what it takes to get what you want. You don’t decide to curl up and die.”

“But I did ask her, more than once, and she just—”

“You never ‘ask.’ And you never say anything more than once. We dictate the terms, not them. I hope I never have to remind you again.”

“No, Vivian,” Jules mumbled, wishing she could sink through the elevator’s polished floor. “Sorry.”

Thankfully, at that moment the elevator stopped. The door opened to reveal a slim suited man waiting in the corridor, smiling at them. He was of middle age with salt-and-pepper hair and was obviously accomplished, wealthy, and distinguished. This did not stop him from looking at Vivian with something like fear in his eyes.

“Vivian,” he said as they exited the elevator. He bent forward to kiss the air at either side of Vivian’s cheeks.

“Preston,” she said without preamble, “your receptionist is appalling. She was deliberately rude to my assistant. Isn’t that right, Julia?”

Even if the woman had been rude, it still seemed wrong to throw her under the bus. “Well, I just think she—”

“I see.” The man extended his hand to Jules. “I’m Preston Praeger. And you?”

“Jules Moretti.”

“A pleasure. Vivian, I’m so sorry about Betsy. I’ll speak to her later today. This way, ladies.”