Rosie’s laugh was low. She stayed leaning against the door, arms folded under the heavy curve of her breasts, watching the two men the way she watched a student who had just offered the wrong answer and still hoped for partial credit.
“Anything I want,” she repeated, “Are you sure the two of you can actually do whatever I want? Because once you say yes, there is no walking it back. No ‘I didn’t mean it.’ No running home to my mother with a story.”
Milan’s mouth was dry. Majid stood half a step behind him, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the floor as if the carpet held the correct response.
Both of them nodded. The motion was small, almost reluctant, but it was there.
Rosie pushed off the door and crossed to her desk. She did not sit.
She simply rested one hip against the edge, the b
