The Rory Special

The cold plastic of the bench bit into Rory's stiff legs as she blinked up at the uniformed officer. "You made bail," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. Her pride was shattered, her hair a frizzy halo of regret. "Someone posted your bail," he repeated, as if she hadn't heard the first time. "He's waiting out front." Rory's heart hammered. "Wait, someone... who?" The officer merely turned away, muttering, "Guy in a suit. Didn't give a name." It didn't clear much up, but Rory wasn't in a position to be picky. She followed him through the maze of beige cinderblock, past the echoes of despair, until they reached the sliding glass doors. And there he was—Guy In A Suit. Impeccably dressed, early forties, with a face that didn't lose arguments. He scanned her like an item on a manifest. "Aurora Hale?" he asked. "Rory," she corrected automatically. He nodded once, efficient, cold. "Mr. Julian Voss has requested a meeting with you." The name Voss hit her like a punch to the gut. The landlord. The building. The trespassing. Oh, fantastic. Nothing screamed 'crushing adulthood' like being summoned by the billionaire who'd accidentally inherited your squatter ass.