Isla's POV
He was tall—six-two, maybe six-three—the kind of height that made the cramped office feel suddenly claustrophobic.
Not the flashy, gym-sculpted build that like a marketing asset. The physique of someone who'd grown up sailing off Martha's Vineyard and skiing in Gstaad, sports that built endurance rather than vanity.
His face caught the harsh fluorescent light, strong jaw, angular cheekbones.
Dark hair, slightly longer. And his eyes—gray, I thought, or maybe pale blue—watched me with an unsettling stillness.
He wasn't dressed for a celebration. Navy cashmere sweater, no tie, collar open at the throat. I recognized the brand of his watch, Patek Philippe, Calatrava line.
Men like him didn't end up in places like this.
The air in the room felt thicker. As if the darkness its
