Rain.
Caiden’s office is everything I expected and nothing like Rhysand’s. Where Rhysand’s building feels like a fortress with dark wood, sharp lines, cold glass walls that make you feel caged, Caiden’s is different.
Sunlight pours through tall windows overlooking the river and slides over the company name mounted on the wall—Bluehorse Cyber Group. There’s a faint scent of cedar and coffee, and the space feels lived-in despite the little furniture.
I’m sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs in the room, sketchpad open on my lap, pencil hovering over a half-finished mood board for his executive floor.
It’s been a week since the s*x in Rhysand’s car and though I haven’t said anything about his confessions and claim over me. I haven’t ignored him either.
My phone buzzes in my hand a
