Yet another touch that my mother insisted on.
She’d assured me that reminding him what I was bringing to the table wouldneverfail to ensure that a male was satisfied with who he was marrying. I wasn’t so certain, butIwasn’t the expert on these kinds of marriages either.
I’d never even been in a long term relationship before andcertainlynot one that was heading toward the aisle. So I took my mother’s expert advice and followed the step-by-step plan she’d laid out for me the moment I’d been introduced to Corwin.
As the elevator stopped and the doors opened onto an immaculately white floor, I straightened my shoulders, adjusted the dress that had no business being that tight, and wobbled my way forward like a woman who refused to trip—even if the ground gave out beneath her.
The second I stepped inside, I knew I didn’t belong—or maybe I just didn’twantto. The place screamed money in that quiet, smug way that only white marble floors could. Every footstep echoed like a warning.
Be careful not to scuff the perfection.
The air smelled faintly of coffee and what I assumed would be calledambitionif it was bottled. The walls were lined with abstract art that probably cost more than an average annual salary, but still looked like someone lost a paint fight. The receptionist’s smile was the kind you practiced in a mirror—polite, symmetrical, and utterly bored—until she recognized who I was and that smile was lost to widened eyes.
“Ms. Greyleaf,” she said, standing. “I didn’t realize you’d be in today.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I told her, smiling sweetly. “I just brought lunch for Corwin.”
“H-he isn’t in his office,” she said, giving a wide smile that seemed plastered on. “He’ll be back later. Why don’t you leave it with me and I’ll make sure he gets it?”
Usually, that would be exactly what I would do. I wasn’t one who would push more than she was expected to. But something poked at me from the back of my mind. Something that told me I needed to head down the corridor to his office. My grandmother’s advice rang in my head.
If you get a gut feeling, then you have to follow it. A witch’s instinct is something that we’ve finely honed over the centuries. Listen to it. It knows better than you do.
“That’s okay,” I told the receptionist, swiping my sweaty palm down the side of my dress. “I’ll just drop this in his office and use the bathroom while I’m in there.”
I tilted my head and gave her my most innocent smile, adding a little finger wave that I’d learned from my mother, turning away from her. Her protest was a garbled sound that I ignored as I continued down in the direction of his office.
The corridor leading to it was too quiet—the kind of silence that made every sound feel like a violation. White marble stretched out ahead of me like a runway for bad decisions, gleaming under the soft, sterile lights. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and money—lean, cold, and entirely impersonal.
His assistant’s desk sat just outside the frosted-glass doors, neat as a showroom—except for one glaring detail. It was empty. No Liora. No smug half-smile as she eyed me with catty eyes that I’d grown used to seeing every time I visited.
Not even the usual stack of color-coded folders she guarded like a dragon. Just her swivel chair turned slightly toward hisoffice, as if she’d left in a hurry—or hadn’t had to go far.
A single pen rolled lazily on the polished wood when the air vent kicked on. I stared at it, my stomach tightening. Something about the stillness felt rehearsed, like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for me to open the door and ruin the illusion.
I gave myself a small shake, my mind insisting that I was being fanciful and ridiculous—like always,my mother’s voice said to me in my head. There wasn’t anything to be seen here. I was going to go into his immaculate office and drop the lunch I’d made on his desk.
I’d message him to let him know, and he’d respond after hours to say that I shouldn’t have. While also adding in a half-dozen complaints about how terrible the food looked. He was such a snob. Nothing was ever good enough for him. But my mother insisted that this was the way to win him over.
Not that I reallywantto marry him, anyway.
My mouth tightened in a line, but I straightened my spine and made my way to the doors. If Iwasgoing to marry this male, then I was going to have to at leasttry. The thought made me nauseated, but I girded myself and continued on.
My hand hovered over the handle. For a second, I almost laughed—that nervous kind of laugh you give when every instinct is screamingdon’t do it,but your curiosity’s already halfway through the door.
The frosted glass blurred the shapes inside. There was a hint of movement, maybe a shadow. My pulse drummed against my throat. I told myself it could be a meeting. A client. Anything normal.
I pushed the door open. And for some reason, I wasn’t surprised. There was no shock as I stared at what was in front of me.
Corwin was standing behind his desk—or, more accurately,pressed up against it—with Liora perched right in front of him, her hands tangled in his hair. The kind of tableau you never forget, no matter how badly you want to. Her blazer was hanging off one shoulder like a bad excuse, and his tie was nowhere to be found.
For a beat, no one spoke. The silence had weight, thick and humiliating. It stuck to my skin like humidity. Then Liora gasped and stumbled forward, into him, straightening her blouse, and Corwin had the nerve to look surprised.
I blinked at them both, calm in a way that told me I wasn’t fully processing the situation yet.
“Oh,” I said finally, stepping inside. “So this is why she’s not at her desk.”
Liora’s mouth opened and closed like a fish in too-shallow water. Corwin started babbling something about deadlines, as if that explained his hands being where they shouldn’t be.
