Alina didn’t flinch as she walked into Nicholas’s private office in Manhattan—uninvited, unannounced, and unapologetic.
She was dressed in black. Silk blouse. Pencil skirt. Red-bottom heels.
Hair slicked back. Lips painted danger.
She was temptation and war.
And she wasn’t here to talk.
Nicholas looked up from behind his desk, jaw clenching at the sight of her.
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
“I came to collect,” she answered smoothly, walking toward him with the slow, hypnotic sway of a woman who knew she held the leash on a monster.
He didn’t rise.
Just leaned back, letting his eyes rake over her, slow and hungry.
“For what?”
She dropped a thick envelope on his desk. “That’s the contract for Delore Paris. Yours—if you sign it in ink and come for me in blood.”
He arched a brow.
