The Cross Tower lobby gleamed like a steel glacier, all chrome edges and echoing marble. Aria’s heels clicked a steady beat as she crossed it, head high. The receptionist perfect hair, perfect smile—nearly swallowed her own greeting.

“Mrs. Cross, Mr. Cross is expecting you. Top floor.”

“Lucky me,” Aria said, and stepped into the private elevator.

Damian’s office spread across the entire top floor, walls of glass slicing the sky. He didn’t rise when she entered. He stood behind his desk, dark suit flawless, expression colder than the air-conditioning.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up from his tablet.

“I’m fashionable,” Aria replied, strolling to the seating area as if...