A day after the consignment had been dispatched, Jedrick sat leisurely in his room, swirling a glass of amber liquor in his hand. The muted light of the evening slanted across his desk, casting long shadows that danced with each flicker of the fireplace.
The sharp trill of his phone cut through the quiet. Jedrick's calm eyes flicked toward the device, recognizing the caller instantly. A slow, amused smile curved his lips as he answered.
"Mr. Walton," he drawled, his tone rich with feigned pleasantry. "I trust the consignment has reached you."
A strained pause answered him — the kind that prickled at the edges of instinct. Jedrick's fingers tightened slightly around his glass, though the smile remained frozen on his lips.
"That's the thing," Mr. Walton's voice finally grated through the line, clipped and tense. "It hasn't."
Jedrick's smile didn't falter, but the air around him grew razor-sharp.
"Explain," he said, his voice still pleasant, but now edged with steel.
