The penthouse was silent now, save for his soft breathing. My gaze drifted from his sleeping form to the hallway that led to his private office. The door was slightly ajar.
Leverage, not surrender.
A few minutes later, his breathing shifted — slower, deeper, that familiar slide into sleep he never let anyone see. I watched him for several beats, counting the rhythm. Only once I was sure he was gone did I stand. My heels came off first — quiet dignity replaced by bare feet against the cool floor. The jazz moved with me as I crossed the room, soft horns and low piano following like accomplices.
The penthouse beyond the main room was curated with intent: steel, stone, glass, and silence designed to bend around one man’s will. His office door, of course, was locked. Men like Ahmir liked loc
