ROWAN’S POV
The elevator doors slid open to the executive floor, and there she was.
My breath caught. Just for a second. I’d seen Lyra in club wear, in casual clothes, rumpled and angry in the mansion. But this was different. She stood in the sleek, minimalist lobby wearing simple black trousers and a cream-colored blouse. The clothes weren’t expensive, but they fit her curves perfectly. Her hair was down, a dark cascade over her shoulders. She looked… professional. Beautiful. Out of place and completely captivating.
She was clutching a notebook to her chest like a shield, her eyes wide as she took in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the silent, expensive art, the assistant at the distant desk who typed without looking up.
This was my idea, I thought, a surge of possessive pride warming m
