My eyes drifted to the minimized surveillance email icon. My finger brushed the mouse once, then stilled.
I didn't open it.
Ten minutes later, the front desk called.
"Chairman Dickerson, Ms. Henson and Mr. Gilbert just left together. They took... your Porsche."
"Noted."
I hung up.
Rising from my chair, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Below, the black Porsche Panamera glided out of the underground garage, merged into traffic, and vanished at the edge of my vision.
The glass reflected my silhouette—tailored suit, expressionless face.
A few minutes later, I opened the car's dashcam app.
The image was crisp. The audio, crystal clear.
Dean had his left hand on the wheel. His right rested on Mary's stockinged thigh.
His fingers traced lazy patterns there, the motion practiced. Familiar.
Mary had one hand draped over his arm, her face tilted up toward him, eyes curved with laughter, cheeks flushed pink.
The modest cream blazer she'd worn at the office was gone—tossed in the backseat.
All that remained was a silk blouse, the top two buttons undone.
Not a trace of the composed executive she played at work.
"You said he looked at it carefully?"