I showed up at 7:57 a.m. wearing the most professional outfit I owned: high-waisted black trousers, a silk blouse buttoned to the throat, and a blazer that hid every curve. My hair was scraped into a tight bun. No lipstick. No perfume. Nothing that could be read as an invitation.
It didn’t matter.
Rhys’s office door was already open. He sat behind the glass desk in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking like he’d been carved out of sin and money. The second I stepped inside, his eyes dragged over me—slow, thorough, like he was undressing me in his head and finding the result disappointing only because the clothes were still on.
“Shut the door, Elara.”
I did. The soft click sounded too loud.
He nodded at the single sheet of paper waiting on the desk in front of the visitor’s
