𝐌𝐬. 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧 | 𝖱𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽-𝖱

2 | Cinnamon Eyes

Ms. Hamilton...

there is someone here to see you," the receptionist; Nadiah, routined voice static through the intercom, causing an delay to deliver her next words on her personal phone. "It's very important, ma'am," she clarified after a short pause and the machine click with a monotone beep. Her face remains neutral and her fudge, brown eyes flashes with a glare.

"My meeting starts in two minutes," she simply reported back, index finger holding the intercom button against its will. The receptionist collected herself after a few mumbles.

The intercom clicked, "It's the girl with green eyes. Would you like for me to send her up or have her continue to wait until the meeting is over?"

"No, no," she re-adjust her body, then twisted in her chair, pulling herself up to the clear desk, "Send her up, please, and tell her to wait by the elevator," she ordered before slacking back into her chair, fingers fidgeting with her bottom lip as her arm rest along the arm's chair. After relaxing that period of time, she fled to her old assistant office-across from her, but a few doors down.

"Knock, knock," she enters just as the assistant; Mya, grabbed the things she needed for the meeting. Her head popped up for a millisecond before grabbing one of the pens from rolling to the ground, "Ready, gorgeous?"

"Yes, Ms. Hamilton," she grunts lowly, unmoved by her boss presence, straightening out her vanilla folder in the process. The southern native's teeth could've fallen to dust at the amount of grinding that was done.

"Say my name like you have some pride," she snarled as her eyebrows brood, casting down her chin in a daring way, "If you can't do that, I'll fuck you so hard you just might forget the abilities to remember your own name, but you'll remember mines-always," Mya doesn't like the way her lips churn into an arrogant smirk-never did, never will. But she loathes how it make her knees buckle and her stomach turn inside out, "Lets go," she demands forcing the other girl to let out a breath of relief once she disappeared in a split second.

Good for her. She doesn't have to face those soul snatching eyes any longer.

The blanch cuban stood waiting by the elevator as told, eyes scanning every employee movements; from clicking away on the computer to sipping on their coffee from Starbucks. "Such an appropriate attire to wear, little one," the sultry voice spoke with the click of her heels, making the hair on the back of her neck spring up. Noted, she spoke in her head. The cuban definitely won't listen to Harry on fashion advice again.

Later, a caramel women rush out of, what Lauren assumes, her office with a few things in her hand. Those are required for a meeting? It's not a lot, but not less than, either. "Follow me," the sable woman instructed, inching closer and closer to the cuban; whom begin to fidget as the owner click the up button. Her assistant stood most likely six inches from behind her. If the latina didn't know any better, she would believe that Normani made a rule of some sort to not be close to her. She seems like that type, she balance the thought in her head.

"Yes, it is a rule," the owner of the building jumbles her thoughts by answering her question, "Six inches apart."

The freaked-out latina didn't have the time to actually freak-out but she swallows largely, then followed the both of the females into the elevator. Hazel eyes examined the light-skinned woman legs-smooth and long. Same thing with the receptionist. Bright, dark skin covered her like a wrapper of some expensive candy. Her calves were structured and her thighs were thick, very thick. Beautiful 4-c hair, which some african-americans would cry about but she rocked her afro-puff like any other regular style.