Elara’s POV
If Adrian Vance wanted things to be “strictly professional,” then fine. I could do professional.
I’d done harder things.
I wasn’t the type to beg someone to care. If he wanted coldness, I’d give him ice.
So, the next morning, I dressed the part.
A fitted black pencil skirt, white silk blouse, nude heels. Hair in a sleek bun. Simple, sharp, untouchable.
By 7:30 a.m., I was at my father’s old office, a building that smelled faintly of old paper and regret. The place had been closed for months, and the once-busy desks were now bare, dust dancing in the sunlight like ghosts of his former employees.
He had let everyone go before his passing, so it was just me now. Sorting through paperwork, filing old contracts, shredding what was outdated, calling suppliers who probably tho
