One week had passed since the Summer Mixer, but the memory of that night still lingered in the air like expensive perfume — Eleanor’s cold stare, the rooftop lights, the stolen moments in the storage room. Andrea smoothed the front of her crisp white blouse as she stood at the head of the long glass conference table on the forty-seventh floor. The Hillcrest project presentation was hers to deliver, and every executive and senior analyst sat watching her.

Henry occupied the seat at the very head of the table, the position of power. His dark suit was impeccable, tie knotted with precision, but his gaze was anything but professional. Those...