The elevator dinged softly as Beatrice stepped out, heels clicking into a space that smelled faintly of toner, old coffee, and something industrial—maybe disinfectant.
She realised to her deepest chagrin that the second floor was a far cry from the glamorous glass-and-gold lobby she had floated through.
Her eyes narrowed slightly at the drab carpeting, the ceiling tiles, and the far-off rattle of a struggling printer.
How… provincial.
Ralph led her down a hallway of glass-walled offices and open cubicles. The people inside looked up from their screens with the curious half-pitying stares reserved for new interns and unimportant guests. Some tried not to look at all.
"Here we are," Ralph announced, pausing in front of a modest corner office where a woman sat typing furiously.
Beatrice tried desperately not to turn up her nose at the sight of the wiry woman in her forties with thick glasses and a permanent frown. Her name tag read: NINA– Floor Supervisor.
