January 7, 2026.
I arrived at Voss Logistics just before two, heart hammering like it was my first time seeing him.
The building was sleek—glass and steel, modern lobby with a receptionist who barely glanced up when I said I had a “freelance consult” with Mr. Voss. Damien had put me on the list.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless. I smoothed my skirt—black pencil, professional but tight, paired with a silk blouse that dipped just enough. Heels. Hair down. Lipstick he liked.
His assistant, an older woman named Diane, smiled warmly. “He’s expecting you. Go on in.”
His office was huge—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snowy city, dark wood desk, leather couches. He stood when I entered, closing the door behind me. Locked it.
For a second we just looked.
Then he cros
