The satellite phone rang just after midnight.
Fukky had been dozing on the sectional—curled under a thick wool throw, body still humming from the slow, emotional lovemaking they’d shared earlier—when the low, insistent chirp pulled her awake.
The fire had burned down to glowing coals, casting faint red light across the room.
She blinked, disoriented, then registered the sound coming from the hallway near Rafael’s study.
She shouldn’t have listened.
But the door was ajar, and his voice carried—low, clipped, all business.
“…Singapore office is ready.
We move the headquarters there by March.
Tax advantages alone will save us eight figures.
The team can relocate in phases.
I want the contracts signed before the new year.”
A pause.
Rafael’s tone sharpened.
“No, I’m not negotiating
