Chapter 2 - THE ENORMOUS DESK AND THE SILENT GLASS
Hannah pushed the stroller through the heavy double oak doors of the corner executive suite.
The office was vast, spanning over two thousand square feet of dark mahogany flooring, leather seating, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls that provided a breathtaking view of the Knoxville cityscape. In the corner stood a massive, twelve-foot Nordmann fir Christmas tree, decorated sparsely with elegant silver ornaments and warm white lights.
In the center of the room sat Ethan Whitmore's desk—a massive, custom-built slab of polished black walnut devoid of personal clutter.
Hannah parked Ellie's stroller safely beside the leather guest armchairs, away from any electrical cords or glass edges. She set her cleaning tray down on the floor and looked down at her daughter.
"Okay, Peanut," Hannah whispered playfully, tapping Ellie's tiny nose. "Desk, trash, vacuum, then we disappear before the big bad boss gets back."
Ellie let out a soft, happy squeak, hugging her stuffed rabbit close to her chin as she watched her mother move.
Hannah worked with swift, practiced efficiency. She dusted the mahogany shelving, polished the glass coffee table, emptied the brass wastebaskets, and wiped down the leather conference chairs. Every thirty seconds, like clockwork, she paused, turned her head, and checked on Ellie.
Ellie remained perfectly content, kicking her small feet in her cream knit socks and chewing gently on the rabbit's felt ear.
Across the wide carpeted hallway, separated from the main office by a wall of floor-to-ceiling dark tinted glass, was the executive conference room.
Sitting alone inside the dark, unlit conference room was Ethan Whitmore.
At thirty-eight, Ethan was a figure who commanded absolute terror across the Southeast—the legitimate CEO of a multi-billion-dollar energy empire and the ruthless, secret head of the Knoxville underground. He was tall, muscular, with dark wavy hair trimmed sharp at the temples, a dark stubble along his sharp jawline, and subtle, dark ink creeping up his wrist and neck beneath his crisp white shirt collar. He wore an immaculate black three-piece suit and a long dark overcoat draped over the back of his chair.
Ethan sat motionless in the leather chair, a glass of dark scotch resting untouched in his hand. He was supposed to be downstairs at the annual board gala, but he had walked out twenty minutes ago, unable to endure the artificial holiday cheer.
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He had refused to celebrate Christmas for four long years—ever since a private family tragedy had ripped his heart out and left him a hollowed, ruthless shell.
Through the heavy dark tint of the conference room glass, which acted as a one-way mirror under the office lights, Ethan sat in the dark, watching the young cleaner and the baby in the stroller.
