My Darling Superstar
They had been waiting for nearly three hours.
Three hours.
And still, no Charles Adam.
Earlier that morning, Jennings had tried to grease the wheels. He’d approached the front desk with a practiced smile and a discreet envelope, thick with crisp bills and the mayor’s signature seal. But the receptionist, a woman with icy poise and a diamond-studded name tag that read “Clarisse,” had barely blinked.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, sliding the envelope back across the counter without even peeking inside. “Mr. Adam is currently attending a private engagement outside. He will return when his schedule permits.”