Nora’s POV

“Lock the door. Skirt up. Hands flat on the table.”

Marcus Hale did not look up from the documents spread across the long conference table when I stepped into the glass-walled room at exactly 8 p.m. The executive floor sat quiet except for the low hum of the building. City lights burned bright through every panel, turning the space into a stage anyone in the opposite tower might watch if they cared to look. The lack of that small layer had kept me wet and on edge since morning.

I locked the door. The click felt final. I walked to the table, lifted the hem of my skirt...