Elena wore the black lace again the next morning.
She had told herself it would feel ordinary the second time. It did not. The delicate fabric sat against her skin with the same quiet weight as the day before, a private instruction she carried into the building with her. She arrived at 7:54 a.m., hair down as he had preferred, and took the lift to the executive floor with her pulse already elevated.
Adrian’s door was open. He stood at the side cabinet pouring coffee, the dark suit fitting him with the usual precise elegance. When she entered he turned, eyes moving over her in a single assessing glance that seemed to catalogue everything posture, clothing, the fact that she had obeyed.
“Good morning, Adrian.”
“Good morning.” He set the cup down. “Close the door.”
She did.
Adrian walke
