The following week, the pattern set itself without discussion or memo. Victor began assigning Delilah projects with vague but insistent notes about “extended availability” and “confidential review required after regular hours.” She never questioned it. She simply stayed—lights dimmed on the rest of the floor, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound beyond the occasional ping of an elevator that never stopped on their level.
The first time Elena arrived, she carried a bottle of chilled Sancerre and two crystal glasses wrapped in linen napkins. She set them on the low table in the executive suite’s private lounge without a word, then locked the door behind her. Delilah was already there—blouse and bra discarded on the armchair, skirt hiked to her hips, reclining against the wide leat
