Nicholas stood beside her—tall, immovable—one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting on the polished railing as the elevator doors slid shut. In the mirrored panel, their reflections stood almost shoulder to shoulder, but his eyes weren’t on the glass. They were on her.
Clara kept her gaze fixed forward, but she felt it—the heat of him, the weight, the invisible pressure sliding over her skin like an uninvited hand.
The car began its smooth ascent, and suddenly every inch between them felt too small, too charged.
“You’ve been busy,” he said at last, his voice low, almost casual. Almost.
She swallowed. “I’ve been working.”
“Working.” He rolled the word slowly, tasting it. “Or… feeding rumors?”
Her stomach tightened. “So you’ve heard them.”
“I hear everything that happens unde
