Morning in the mansion did not arrive gently.
It arrived with precision.
Soft golden light filtered through the sheer curtains, stretching across the vast bedroom in disciplined lines. The city skyline had shifted from glittering diamonds to steel and glass, cold and distant in the daylight.
She woke slowly.
Warmth pressed against her cheek.
For a single, fragile second, she forgot where she was.
Then reality struck.
The mansion.
The contract.
The bedroom rule.
And the solid, living warmth beneath her hand.
Her eyes widened.
Sometime in the night, she had turned toward him. Her palm rested flat against his chest, fingers curled slightly into the crisp white cotton of his shirt. One of his arms lay around her waist—not tightly, not possessively, but undeniably there.
Her breath
