I knew something was wrong the second I stepped out of the elevator. The air outside my office felt too still, too quiet. My assistant’s scent—usually coffee and floral shampoo—was laced with nerves. When I opened the door, I understood why.
Landon stood in the middle of my office like he owned it, hands clasped behind his back, blocking part of the window. He was studying my sample display—mannequins in hand-knit coats and fur-trimmed capes—as if he’d funded the entire line.
My assistant lingered near the door, shoulders tight. “Ms. Hale,” she whispered, “he insisted on coming in. I tried to stop him, but he said as Alpha I couldn’t.”
“Hey.” I touched her arm gently. “Go take a break. This isn’t on you.”
She nodded and slipped out. The door clicked shut.
The silence pressed against m
