Talks were still happening. Alexander was mid-monologue about quarterly yields, his fork gesturing in lazy, authoritative arcs. Lorelei smiled, nodding in all the right places. Riley typed something into her phone with one hand and stabbed a piece of beetroot with the other like it had offended her.

And beneath the table, Ryder drove his fingers into me.

Just—slid them in.

I twitched so hard my knee knocked the underside of the table. A low thud. The chandelier trembled overhead.

I clutched my napkin tighter, fingers curling white-knuckled in my lap as if that could ground me. My breath stuttered.

He didn’t stop. Not even a little.

Two fingers, deep...