Nora’s POV

“Close the door and lock it, Blake.”

Marcus Hale’s voice cut through the quiet of the executive floor at 9:47 p.m. I stood just inside his office doorway, still in the navy blouse and pencil skirt I had worn since seven that morning. The glass walls of the high-rise never fully darkened. City lights glittered forty stories below, and anyone walking the corridor could see silhouettes if they looked hard enough. I was Nora Blake, twenty-seven, third-year associate who had survived two performance reviews by working later than everyone else. Marcus was thirty-nine, department head, the man who controlled my hours, my evaluations, and now, apparently, whatever else...