Cyrus Sterling leaned against the backseat of his Maybach, eyes fixed on the shifting skyline. Morning light spilled through the tinted windows, warm and sharp, but it did little to lift the cool stillness that had settled over him. He was dressed in dark navy slacks and a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed halfway to his elbows, forearms taut as he scrolled through reports on his tablet.

But his thoughts wandered elsewhere—Camilla.

Images of what they had done last night were still fresh in his memories. The softness of her skin against his, how she'd responded to him, her moans, the way she clutched the sheets. He...