The Billionaire's Secret Quartet

Thalassa shook off her funk and asked curiously, “How?”

“We gotta visit Dr. Funke.”

“But Dr. Funke won’t even give us the time of day,” Thalassa lamented.

“Didn’t Dr. Funke promise Alaric a dinner to sign some contract or something? We can just go with Alaric,” Hertha suggested. “But…”

“No buts about it, leave this to me,” Hertha proclaimed, her indignation fueling her resolve.

The next morning, Hertha made her way to the Falconer Group, striding with determined steps toward the elevator.

No sooner had she reached the reception desk than she was stopped, “Miss, may I ask who you’re here to see?” Every corporate receptionist is like a human radar for new faces.

Spotting an unfamiliar one, they intercept, preventing any potentially ill–intentioned visitor from disturbing the upper echelons of the company.

Hertha had to pause, but she put on a cheery smile and told the receptionist, “I’m an old friend of your VP. Just need to chat with him about something.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, her expression stern, leaving no room for flexibility.

an appointment to see an old friend?”

to meet with our VP. If you

swallowed her

high–and–mighty that he required appointments?

his help, so she held

she told the receptionist, “Sorry, let me just give him

phone, the same one she’d had for three years, Hertha scrolled

years. She wondered if

sharing a bed, leaving the hotel that morning in a

her pregnancy came, and fearing the gossip, she cut off all contact with the

number had been cocooned in her phone for three years.

dialing it again after all this

knowing if the call would

tone

went