Adrian’s POV
Something is wrong with Ava Sinclair.
I know it the second she steps onto the executive floor the next morning. The air changes around her before she even reaches her desk. Most people would never notice it. To everyone else, she looks exactly the same—elegant, composed, impossible to read.
But I notice.
Because after last night, my attention tracks her automatically now, like instinct sharpening into obsession. And because Ava only becomes this controlled when something underneath her is close to breaking.
The sharp sound of her heels cuts across the marble floor in steady, measured clicks. Too steady. Every movement feels rehearsed, polished down to precision. Her dark hair falls neatly over one shoulder, her expression smooth as glass as she greets the receptionist wit
