I hated him the second he walked into the conference room.

Rhys Voss didn’t just enter a space—he took it. Tall, broad-shouldered, black suit cut like it was designed to make women stupid, dark hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it after fucking someone against a wall. His eyes found me the moment the door clicked shut, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Five years.

Five years since he left me standing in the rain outside that shitty apartment with his come still drying on my thighs and the words “This was a mistake” still ringing in my ears.

Now he was the...