Monica must be failing miserably, just like he knew she would. Her father had finally come to his senses. That had to be it. That better be it. Wendell rapped on the doorframe with the back of his knuckles. “You wanted to see me, sir?” “Come in. Have a seat.” The old man looked up, nodded, and then continued to rifle through a stack of papers on his desk. Wendell sat in the brown leather chair on the other side of the massive oak desk and waited. He would wait forever for Stanley Hammond; in fact, he already had. He’d waited a long time to see this man take a fall for what he’d done. Wendell took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves, littered with expensive books and priceless works of art. Thick burgundy curtains framed massive windows, which let the afternoon sun stream in and warm the room. He shifted, and his Italian shoes sank into the plush beige carpet. Soon this would all be his to destroy. It was only a matter of time. Hammond’s daughter wasn’t capable of running it, so why shouldn’t Wendell have it?
