She didn’t knock. The man behind the desk didn’t expect her to.

She stepped into the lion’s den wearing a borrowed dress, spine too straight for someone delivering herself as payment. Every instinct told her to turn back. But the door clicked shut behind her and the moment sealed itself.

He didn’t rise when she entered. Neither did he speak. He just stared, as if watching something fragile drift into his web. The air between them was silent, thick, knowing.

She was not what he expected.

Younger. Softer. Untouched by the kind of desperation she now wore like perfume.

His gaze slid down her body without shame, without rush. He...