Bright.
Incandescent.
The color of molten gold on the edge of combustion.
Isolde clears her throat.
"Mr. Thorne. I was not expecting you for another twenty minutes."
"I finished early," he says.
His voice is low.
Rough.
Absolutely devoid of anything resembling casual politeness.
He steps into the room, moving with that effortless, predatory grace that makes my stomach flip.
He circles me slowly.
Not touching.
Just looking.
His eyes track every detail—the way the silk molds to my waist, the way the bodice emphasizes my shoulders, the way the slit reveals the compact muscle of my thigh.
"Turn," he says.
It's not a request.
I turn slowly, letting him see the full effect.
The dress has a low back—not scandalously low, but low enough to show the curve of my spine, the line of my shoulder blades.
I hear his breath catch.
It's a small sound.
Barely audible.
But I hear it.
And it makes my entire body flush with heat.
"This is the one," he says.
Isolde nods.
"I will make the final adjustments and have it delivered to the penthouse by tomorrow evening."
"Good."
He's still staring at me.
Still circling.
Still radiating that intense, possessive focus that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the entire world that matters.
