Rachel thought the night would end with exhaustion. The investors’ gala had drained her, Clarissa’s chatter had filled every silence, and Victor’s sharp orders had left her body aching. All she wanted was the quiet of Morton’s, the comfort of her narrow bed and the radiator’s clumsy hum.
But fate had a way of bending her steps back into fire.
She had just untied her apron and pulled on her coat when she heard his voice.
“Leaving already?”
She froze in the staff corridor. Adam Cole leaned against the doorway of the private lounge, jacket draped over his arm, tie loosened, every line of him carved with ease. He looked nothing like the man who commanded boardrooms; he looked dangerous in a quieter, more intimate way.
“I thought you’d gone upstairs,” Rachel said carefully.
“Not yet.” His
