Page 8 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
When the door finally closes behind him, the room immediately feels quieter.
Better.
We both return to our desks.
By four p.m., Samantha begins packing up her bag.
She leaves at the same time every day—one of the few people in this department who believes in the radical concept of work-life balance.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Ellie.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re not staying here until eight p.m.”
“What?” I frown at her. “No. Of course not.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I would never do that.”
I absolutely plan to.
I’m not leaving until I’ve solved this and sent the case back to the client.
Samantha narrows her eyes.
She knows me far too well.
Then she rolls her eyes and leans down to kiss my cheek.
“I’m serious,” she says. “I’ll call you by eight, and you better be home, or I’ll stage an intervention.”
I laugh. “Duly noted.”
She shoulders her bag. “Good.” Then she points at me. “Eat something that isn’t chips.”
“No promises.”
She shakes her head, smiling faintly, and heads toward the door. “See you tomorrow, Ellie.”
“Bye.”
The door closes behind her. The lab becomes very quiet.
The kind of quiet I like.
No gossip.
No sweaters.
Just the soft hum of computers and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
I roll my shoulders once and turn back to my monitor.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I pull up the linguistic comparison database the client sent earlier this week—internal communications from their senior staff.
Emails.
Memos.
Meeting transcripts.
