The morning sunlight cutting through the vertical blinds of the executive office felt less like dawn and more like an interrogation lamp.
I sat at my desk, staring blindly at a quarterly architectural projection sheet, my coffee growing ice-cold beside my hand. Last night with Leo had been a masterclass in psychological torture. I had managed to fake a migraine, thanked him for the lemon tarts, and retreated to my bedroom under the guise of needing absolute rest. He had kissed my forehead, entirely gentle and oblivious, while I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling, feeling like a complete fraud.
And now, I was back here. In the lions' den.
The heavy oak door of Julian’s inner office swung open. He stepped out, wearing a sharply tailored navy suit, his shirtsleeves turned back
