“I have to say,” Greg begins, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease, “your presence at the conference last week didn’t go unnoticed. Especially during the client discussion—you guided that meeting seamlessly.”
I keep my expression steady, voice calm.
“We had a clear strategy going in. We’re glad it showed.”
For a brief moment, Greg’s eyes hold mine—thoughtful, assessing—but I simply return his gaze, steady, unmoved.
He moves on, shifting the discussion toward upcoming campaigns and a few projects in development. Adriana dives in, lively and eager, while I stick to facts—precise, concise, cutting through the noise.
The meeting flows smoothly, each of us playing our role.
By the time we wrap, Greg leans back, visibly satisfied.
“Well,” he says, tapping his pen against the table, “I think we should explore this further. There’s a project coming down the pipeline that could benefit from your insight—especially while you’re both here.”
He glances between us, then smiles—easy, casual.
“Why don’t we discuss it over lunch? There’s an Italian spot nearby—quiet, good food.”
Adriana lights up immediately. “Sounds great.”
I nod, composed. “Of course.”
Greg’s smile lingers for a beat longer, then he stands, gesturing toward the door.
As we follow him out, I keep my focus straight ahead—unaware of the storm quietly building elsewhere.
* * *
Dorian
I’m pacing my office.
I’ve been in since dawn—like every day. Always the first in, always the last out.
That’s the rule now.
After everything I lost five years ago—after clawing my way back from debts and threats and watching everything I built teeter on the edge—I swore I’d never let myself slip again.
These days, my life is simpler—but sharper.
I’ve rebuilt from the ground up. Sold what needed selling, paid off every cent I owed, and never forgot the sting of those nights when the phone wouldn’t stop ringing with debt collectors.
Now, I own three buildings in the heart of Chicago. A private club that practically prints cash on weekends. Two restaurants that I keep quietly in the background. Nothing extravagant—but steady. Mine.
I built this life slowly. Brick by brick. No more reckless deals. No more risks I couldn’t control.
But then there washer.
The image of her still haunted me.
Della in that red dress at the club.
Della’s lips, parted in defiance.
Della at that hotel. That pale blush dress—soft, flowy—barely cinched at the waist, skimming her curves just enough to tempt without trying.
Her coppery curls tumbled down her shoulders, loose and effortless, yet deliberate.
