Anya’s POV
He stopped in front of a tall wooden door—real wood, heavy, the kind that muted sound and promised privacy whether you wanted it or not. He slid the keycard in with a practiced motion. A soft click followed. Final. Too final. Then he pushed the door open and stepped aside, one hand gesturing inward like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“After you,” he said.
His voice had gone neutral again. Polite. Controlled. As if the elevator—his closeness, the heat of it, the way my nerves had sparked—had never happened.
I hesitated for half a second too long, then walked in.
And forgot how to breathe.
The suite opened up around me, wide and elegant, wrapped in warm light that softened every edge. Cream-colored walls glowed gently, not stark, not cold. The carpet was thic
